Poisoned Poison
by scousemuz1k
Summary: Sequel to Flying to Die and Blossom's Revenge. Takes up almost immediately after Blossom's Revenge.The stolen drugs didn't end up in a landfill after all... Team fic, Tony centric, with Kent Fuller and Blossom.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I don't know anything about drugs… I've researched and tried to be accurate.**

**I still own nothing… I make no money from writing about my favourite show. I do have fun, though.**

Poisoned Poison

by scousemuz1k

The two tiny furrows between the Probie's eyebrows suggested that whatever state he was officially in, unconscious, sleeping, drugged sedation, coma – no, he knew it wasn't that – well, whatever, somewhere down under there McGee was still in pain. That bothered Tony. It bothered him because Ducky had told him that the junior agent needed complete rest. And then they'd stuck him in here, with him, where the comings and goings were like Grand Central.

Any other time, Tony would have been grateful for the continual stream of visitors, because they'd be keeping his mind off the one person who _wasn't _visiting. The person who hadn't told him… who'd told his friend to tell him. She couldn't love him, right. Meaning she could, if she wanted to. He could love her… and she knew it. But she didn't stick around for him to argue. Hell, she didn't stick around until he woke up, let alone to say goodbye.

He resolutely pushed Paula out of his mind; right now he had McGee to think about. He missed the banter… the Probie was beginning to come out of his shell and answer back… had got in a few good put downs of his own lately, but he wasn't going to be fit to return to the battle if he never got the peace and quiet he needed to recover. People crashing in and then lowering their voices to affected whispers didn't count as either peace _or _quiet. Tony happened to think, after sharing a pretty hairy evening with him two nights ago, that the kid deserved a bit better than that, and he was starting to get irritable. For that matter, he wouldn't have minded a bit of rest himself… He didn't want to upset anybody, honestly, but dumped by Paula or not, he wished everyone would just go away.

Abby had caught the mood, and misunderstood. "Are you in pain, Tony?" she asked, her voice getting higher, and _louder_ with anxiety. Well, yes, he was, but that wasn't the point.

"Sssh… no, it's not that. We have to be quiet for McGee…" and, because his tone was a bit snarky he guessed, Abby misunderstood again.

"_Tony_! You should be looking after Tim, not wishing he wasn't in here!"

"Sssh… Abby…"

"Fine, I'll shush." She went off in a huff, boots clomping. Tony leaned back, banged his head on his pile of pillows, and sighed.

"You can't do right for doing wrong…" a soft, gravelly voice said from his right.

"I'm sorry, McGee," the SFA said, his voice low from concern and exhaustion. "I'm not trying to get rid of you… I just can't understand why they put you in here in the first place. Ducky said you needed complete rest. If _I'm_ not getting any peace, then sure as hell, you're not. How's your head?" He opened his eyes, and rolled his own fuzzy head on the pillow to look across at McGee. Poor Probie looked like a panda, even if the swelling was going down.

"I'd say it's fine… but it's not… but hey, compared to what it was like last night… I'm not complaining, Tony. How's your shoulder? Fine, I suppose? Hey… stay where you are!"

"It's _fine._ I made them take all the tubes out this morning; told them I'd take them out myself and go AMA if they didn't. And would you believe it was two nights ago?"

"Oh." Long pause. "I can see a lot better now."

The SFA wobbled across the space between the two beds, blessing Ducky for the sweats he'd brought. Whilst he thought the DiNozzo ass was a pretty fine example of such things, he didn't want to show it to the world out of the back of a hideous hospital man-nightie. "That's good. D'you need a drink? There are some ice cubes here… or shall I just go away and leave you in peace?"

"Ice… would be nice."

Tony proffered one on a spoon, and McGee sighed with pleasure. "Thank you, nurse," he whispered, and Tony chuckled, and fed him another one, before he could remember that he should be offended.

"Hey…" he hissed, "Just who teases who around here?"

"What'll you do? Superglue my backside to the bed?"

"Probie, I am not going anywhere near your backside, let that be perfectly understood."

"Glad to hear it, DiNozzo," a familiar voice rumbled loudly from the doorway, and the pain lines came back to McGee's face. The SFA shot a warning glance at the Boss over his shoulder, and turned back to his 'patient'.

"D'you want me to call a nurse? Up your pain meds?"

"Am I a wimp if I say yes?"

"No."

"Then yes…"

Gibbs watched the interchange with a mixture of amusement and pride. As the nurse came in, he said, much more quietly than before, "Well, McGee, I can see you're in good hands."

"Course he is, Boss. You 'n me, let's talk outside."

"Outside?"

"There's a day-room. With a balcony. Fresh air. Give Probie a bit of probiepeace. You've come to tell me they're letting me out of here, haven't you."

Gibbs observed the slight wobble and pulled Tony's good arm over his shoulder. Probiepeace… Clearly Abby had got the wrong end of the stick; he'd suspected as much. He answered obliquely. "They want to keep McGee for twelve hours after his eyesight's returned to normal."

Tony lowered himself carefully into a dayroom chair, and raised his eyebrows at his Boss. "And you want me to stay with him."

Gibbs nodded. "It can't do any harm."

"Yes, it can. I'm such a fine example to follow."

"Yeah, I heard about the tubes."

"I didn't need them, Boss."

Gibbs studied him for a moment. The eyes were hooded, trying not to give anything away, and the way the long, elegant frame was draped casually over the chair that was too small and inadequate to contain it, shouted ease and relaxation. DiNozzo could lie in his teeth without saying a word. And did, every time he was cooped up in a hospital.

"I know. But you need the rest as much as he does. Are you so determined to forget that you had surgery less than forty-eight hours ago? Look…you've already appointed yourself his personal protector… tough it out for another twenty-four hours. If you try to leave, he will too."

Tony sighed. "Like I said, I'm such a fine example to follow."

"Usually," Gibbs said easily. "You wouldn't be teaching him anything about being an agent otherwise. And you wouldn't be on my team." The green eyes flashed, but DiNozzo said nothing. "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for him. Keep the hordes away, let him get the rest he needs."

Tony nodded slowly, reluctant to agree. "He did good, Boss."

"So did you. Tony-" oh-oh, first name – "I _know_ how you hate hospitals…Indulge me… rest a little longer, and you'll both be back on duty sooner. You know I'm right."

"I don't have to like it… yeah, I'll stop with McConked…"

Gibbs grinned shamelessly. "Right." He paused, then said gently, "Cassidy been back?" Tony met his eyes, and simply pulled a wry face in reply. The Boss nodded regretfully and pushed himself to his feet. "I need coffee. I'll bring you back some tea." He went off towards the vending machines, leaving Tony to reflect on being suckered… he hated it when the Boss was right.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took stock. He didn't feel too bad, except that he got tired very quickly, but he'd expect that. He was disposing of painkillers as soon as their backs were turned; he could do without, and he'd rather stay in control of his brain. Yep, Gibbs was right. Rest, if he could only get it, was all he needed, and he was going to hang on to that twenty-four hours that the Boss had mentioned, and torture him with it if it turned out not to be an accurate estimate. This time tomorrow he'd blow this popsicle stand…

"Nice to see you with a smile on your face." Kent Fuller's voice was quiet but amused.

Tony opened his eyes and grinned more broadly. "I was redesigning nurse's uniforms," he began, but Kent cut him off.

"Sure you were… I just met Gibbs, he says you want out. You're more likely to have been planning where to dig the tunnel." He paused and looked at his friend closely. "Things have been happening," he said. "You feel up to hearing about it?"

"I was only resting my eyes," Tony protested. "I'm up to it… but Gibbs'll be back in a minute."

"I know. He'll want to hear it too." Moments later, after Gibbs had passed round the hot drinks, Kent began a detailed account of events.

"I imagine Izzy's told you, she and Inez are staying with Miz Howard across the road – their house is a crime scene, and they're not keen to be there anyway."

Tony nodded. "It's generated plenty of interest from prospective buyers though."

"She's had two definite offers already," Kent agreed. "No understanding people sometimes. Inez will go back to Philadelphia as soon as all the statements and information are assembled, to prepare for going to UCLA. Starling's under arrest; no chance of witness protection for him this time. Gigli and that young hick from Kansas likewise. Nickless is in a coma in Washington Hospital Center, no telling if or when he'll stand trial. The three bodies are in the care of your Doctor Mallard."

"Did you get my Sig back? And McGees?"

"Relax, DiNozzo, they're in my desk," Gibbs said.

"Yesterday morning, my team started to track down the missing stash; even if it _had _ gone in a landfill, we had to know. The contractors told us that isn't what happens; there are regulations, and since it was all building stuff it went to a recycling centre, so that's where we went. Isabella came with us, and we located the remains of her shed. Blossom indicated some contamination, but there was nothing there. We searched through all the reclaimed sand, all the cement, rubble and powder. We had a real fun day… and the point is, we found nothing. Nada…"

"Wonderful," Tony said. "It's still out there. Some _other_ dirtbag's found it."

"I went to see Starling, and persuaded him to tell me all about it." He smiled thinly at how easy it had been. 'Adam Power' took very little leaning on… "Ten kilos, in one kilo packs, strong transparent plastic, airtight seals. Hidden in a pale brown and blue sack of Duffy's brown building sand, at the back of the shed. So… I went back to the contractors… yes, they said, they remembered throwing that into the dumpster. Blossom had a sniff, but there was nothing, so it didn't burst open at that point."

He sighed. "Most likely, the contractors are in the clear… although if any of their workers suddenly start dealing, we'll know different – but off we trudged to the recycling plant. Everyone there; that's four men and two women who do the handling, one woman and one man in the office, and the lady boss of the site – everyone denied any sort of knowledge. It wasn't there, and nobody had seen it, touched it, remembered it. They have regular break-ins from people who want to do a bit of reclaiming on their own accounts, they said, but no-one had any idea if there'd been one lately. All very woolly. Did they have CCTV? Well, yes, but they didn't know what areas… Never mind, I said, give me everything you've got."

"It sounds," Tony said thoughtfully, "as if they've got some sort of a low-level fiddle going on. Stuff disappears, they can explain it by break-ins… but they're probably selling stuff cheap to their mates. Which would mean that they pick through everything that comes in."

Kent nodded. "Blossom sniffed their hands, and their cars, nothing. So whether it was them or someone who –" he did air quotes – "broke in, the stuff left there intact, and so far we've no leads on where it's gone. I've got young Alex looking at the CCTV footage, but you can bet that if there's a fiddle going on they'll have made sure it won't have been filmed."

"This is your jurisdiction now," Gibbs said. "Our involvement's over apart from the trials. But you've got our input if you need it. Would you like Abby Sciuto to take a look at the film?"

Kent grinned. "I'll have it sent over right away," he said with alacrity. His phone buzzed; he looked round guiltily and stepped out onto the balcony to answer it. When he came back in, his face was as thoughtful as Tony's had been earlier, and somewhat grim.

"Well," he said, "That didn't take long."

"It's on the streets already?" Tony asked.

"We have a few very brave young volunteers… ex users, who buy for us to track with. One of them bought some speedballing this morning. The heroin we know the source of, we're reeling them in gradually – but the cocaine… that's our Starling signature stuff."

"What else?" Tony asked, reading the DEA chief's concern.

Kent swore softly. "It's bad enough dealing with the pros… but these bloody amateurs… greedy opportunists… they don't know enough about what they found to realise it was uncut. I'm thinking that probably, cuz it does feel like a crime of opportunity, they wouldn't have heroin available. They seem to have sold it on to someone who didn't bother to check, so until they realise their mistake, people are going to shoot heroin and pure coke – the rush'll be colossal, but short, and then when it goes, they risk respiratory arrest from the opiate. The poison's poisoned, and sooner or later, someone's going to die."

**AN: It seemed as if there were some loose ends after Blossom got her revenge, so off we go again.**


	2. Chapter 2

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 2

Tony went back to his room, not too shakily, on tip-toe, in the throes of an inner debate. He'd promised Gibbs twenty-four hours, and he wanted not a moment longer. This damn' case still wasn't over, and he needed to be involved. Fuller would be struggling if things got any bigger; his unit here in DC had always been considered large enough before, but this business was putting an unusual amount of strain on it. Their own cases had to come first, but NCIS would help if they could – so by that reasoning, the extra manpower that was Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, needed to be out of here.

He looked over at the sleeping Probie. There was the difficulty. He was needed just as much, but he also needed to be right where he was. A bullet in the shoulder is what it is, you know how to deal; a head injury is something quite different. So, he'd try to make sure McGee got all the rest he needed; and hope that twenty-four hours were all it took. But should he tell him or not?

Oh, yeah, let's be brutal here… _'Hurry up and sort your vision out, Probie, so I can be out of here in twentyfour.'_

Because of course if McGee wasn't out of there, then there was no way he could be either…

If he told him, then come the deadline, the kid would pretend. He was congenitally incapable of lying, but he'd say his sight was back to normal, because he'd know that was what Tony wanted. So, tell him and put him under pressure… or don't tell him and that's not being straight with him. Hey, both morally wrong; just which was worse? He lay back against his pillows and came up with the answer – a guy who wouldn't lie wouldn't want to be lied to. Right… if Gibbs knew, the doctors must already have told McGee about the twelve hour thing, so all he had to do was make it clear he was happy to stay here too. And do it without actually lying… back to square one… he was starting to get a headache.

"You want out of here, don't you?"

Smart. Tony thought of that device they use in movies, where the screen fragments into tiny pieces, that all drop to the floor like sand. OK, shelve the whole debate. Truth only.

"Course I do. I hate hospitals. But I don't think I'm quite ready yet." OK, that was true. He wasn't lying by leaving out the bit about it never having stopped him before.

"Never stopped you before."

Too damn' smart. "Stop probing, Probie. I thought you were supposed to be sleeping."

"I'm resting. But you know how it is… they won't tell you what's going on cuz they don't want you to worry, so you worry because you don't know what's going on."

Tony sighed softly, because he _did_ know how it is, and he moved silently across to sit on the end of McGee's bed. He was pleased to realise he was much steadier on his feet now, even though he could only balance with one arm. The nurses had seen how he cheated with two handed things, pushing the hand of the arm that was strapped to his chest over the sagging neckline of the old sweatshirt; they'd given up on even trying to stop him. "On your own head be it…" they'd said direly.

He kept his voice low. "OK… think about this, if you like. But you and I are in here until _they_ say we can go…"

"You could go…"

"Promised Gibbs. And before you start feeling guilty, he's doing it as much to keep me tied down as you."

"I'd already worked that out. He was pretty mad about those tubes… figured he'd find a way to make you behave."

"Make me _behave, _McNyah-nyah? And that had better not be a grin!"

Tim's smile was huge. "Tell me what Fuller said."

As Tony explained what Kent had told him and Gibbs, the younger man concentrated for a while, and then began to doze again. As soon as the SFA stopped speaking, however, he murmured, "Not asleep yet…"

Tony grinned to himself and kept going. "…The point is, Probie, you can think about it as much as you like, but we stay here until your vision's been normal for twelve hours, like they say."

"S' normal now… told them so jus' b'fore you came back…" This time, Tony thought, he really was asleep. He absolutely resisted the temptation to call the nurse and ask her if McGee was lying for the first time since he'd known him.

NCISNCISNCIS

"What have you got, Abbs?" Two men walked into the lab.

"Gibbs! I knew you'd be down – you always know – oh, hi, Agent Fuller. Did Gibbs tell you he always knows when I've got something for him? Well, for you actually, because of course it's four days worth of your films I've been running since early this morning…"

Kent waited politely; he was getting used to the fizz that was Abby. Gibbs wasn't so temperate. "Abbs…"

"Well, I found the point where the contractors emptied their dumpster… you can see there's a holding area before anything's sorted." She froze the scene and enlarged it. "And there's your sack of sand. It didn't move for the day and a half that the camera was pointing at it. All the cameras were realigned at the same time on the afternoon before you visited. This is five am, on the morning that you went there later with Izzy. The site opens at seven. You can see a car approaching the main gate. It slows down, but goes past. I got a schematic of the site, and there's a small entrance to the staff car park just beyond camera range. It has no coverage. I couldn't get the plate, and the driver's indistinct, but Tim's still working on that – oops…"

"McGee? _McGee_'s working on it?"

"Yes, Boss," a guilty voice came from the back of the lab. Tim and Tony sat looking like naughty schoolboys.

Tony stood up. "We didn't sign ourselves out, Boss."

"My eyesight's been fine since four o'clock yesterday afternoon. They said I could go at eight o'clock this morning. And Tony wouldn't get involved; he said he'd promised you."

"Did they say you could come here and start staring at computers immediately?"

Tim's expression was one he was more used to seeing on Tony. "They didn't say I couldn't, Boss."

Gibbs glared at his SFA. "Did they say you could start wearing a sling over your clothes?"

"No, Boss, Ducky said that."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I should never have let them put you two in the same damn room…"

"I warned you I was a fine example, Boss. But don't forget you were back in the field three days after you got shot in the shoulder."

"You saying I should let you back in the _field_, DiNozzo?"

"Well, maybe not…"

"Gentlemen, if I _may…_"

They turned back to Abby's screen. "Now, the way the camera's been set to point, the spot where the sack has been lying for thirty-six hours is directly behind it. Two minutes after the car arrives… Watch." She slowed the action down. A shadow passed across the screen, thrown by the low early morning sun, then vanished into the larger shadow of a building. The shadow's hair was worn in two bunches. Abby advanced the film, then slowed it down again. The shadow came back moving slowly, this time less clear, as the figure was bent double, and much more bulky. One bunch of hair could still be seen swinging.

"Five fifteen," Abby said. "You arrived unannounced at eight fifteen. She didn't know she only had a window of three hours. She was lucky."

"She?" Gibbs asked.

"Oh, yes," Kent Fuller said calmly. "Only two people on the site have hair that long. One's the forklift driver, all twenty-one stone of him, he'd never have to bend double to carry a sack of sand; the other's Sandra Strothers, the manager."

Tony rattled some keys and brought her details up. "Perk of being the manager, maybe. Looks over the stuff to tell them where to put it, spots the white against the brown sand. Realigns the cameras, which, by devious means we discovered are remotely driven from inside the office, where she only has to avoid letting two people see her doing it, and comes back later. She drives a Chevvy Impala, Boss, which is what we'll find that car is on the film. McGee'll get us a closer look, but even without it, I'd say we've enough to bring her in for a chat. Or… hey, I mean, Kent has." He stood up eagerly.

"Fine," Gibbs said shortly. "Me and Ziva'll go."

Tony stiffened, then decided that he'd pushed both his own and McGee's luck just about as far as he could for one day. It was only, he knew very well, the fact that deep down the Boss admired their persistence and devotion to duty – _'don't forget deviousness' _McGee had added as Ducky had driven them away from the hated hospital – that had prevented a tearing off and a throwing out of the building. Privately, he thought that with Abby was the very best place the Probie could be right now, and he was willing to bet that Gibbs felt the same. Not that the Boss would ever tell him he was right.

He'd no sooner stalked out than Fuller's phone buzzed.

"Dom? Hey… calm down, man…what's up? Where? Yeah… no, stay low. I'm on my way."

The other three looked at him anxiously, hearing trouble in his tone.

"Those kids who buy for us," Kent said tensely. "One of them's in trouble." He reeled off an address for Tim, who was already preparing to alert LEOs. "McGee," he said over his shoulder as he hurried out, "make sure they know he's one of mine, huh?"

He added as he ran towards the stairs, "Don't want them thinking he's some punk dealer…" and then gave his head a mental shake when he realised who he was talking to. DiNozzo was about three stairs behind him, and beginning to breathe hard, but he was grinning like the wolf, with the three little piggies cornered.

"DiNozzo, you're _not_ coming with me."

"I just said that to McGee – he believed me, though."

"Dammit, you're not cleared for field work…"

"And I'm not packing. But I'm another pair of eyes, and I guarantee you won't have to waste time looking out for me."

"You're an idiot!"

"So I've been told." They ran across to the DEA truck that seemed to spend half its time at the Navy Yard these days, and Tony glanced back only to be disappointed, as Blossom wasn't there.

"She's having a day off," Fuller said. "She worked so hard the last couple of days…"

Tony nodded. "So this kid… what sort of trouble's he in?"

"We call them scouts. They can be trusted. They buy random stuff, so we can test it and know what's around. Dominic went to his usual spot and got jumped. They hit him, and asked about the 'spark', which is their latest street argot for pure cocaine apparently. He ran, and he's hiding in a boat repair yard somewhere near 17th…" Tony was glad Blossom wasn't in the back as Fuller took the next corner on two wheels. His face was dark. "I'm not losing another of my people," he said flatly.

"You're not going to rush in and get yourself killed either," Tony said just as plainly. "There. Boat yard… you think that's it?" He was answered by the sound of a shot. They drove into the yard and slewed the truck round under the shadow of a large hull that was held up by trusses.

Kent hit speed dial. "Dom… where are you? You OK?" He held the phone so that Tony could hear the reply.

"In the timber store… I'm OK… they've got a gun, they just shot at a cat, must have thought it was me. They've not found me yet but they're getting closer… I'm scared, Agent Fuller…"

"We're coming, Dom. Stay hid. Now… timber store?"

Tony said "Over there. Get in the back."

"You what?"

"I'll drive. You concentrate on dealing with them until the LEOs get here. I'll protect the kid."

Kent grimaced, lousy plan's better than no plan at all; but he was already squeezing through the gap. A guy his size could never have done it in an average sedan. Tony was across to the driver's seat, and pointed to three figures running from cover to cover. One of them was pointing right back at them. Another raised a gun. Tony shoved the truck unkindly into drive, and trod on the gas. The Ford leapt forward with a squeal of tyres, and smashed through the crumbling wooden doors into the timber store, where Tony had to brake sharply, because although the place didn't seem to have been used in a while, there were plenty of piles of stacked timber to crash into. He left the engine running, as they both jumped out of the vehicle.

"Dom? DOM?"

"I'm here…" a voice called nervously from behind a load of curved timbers stood on end against a wall. A shot from the other end of the building pinged off an old circular saw close by. Kent fired back and ran for cover behind a stack of planks, while Tony ran, doubled up, to where a fair haired young man with wide, scared china blue eyes crouched. Shots from at least two guns went by over his head as he reached the cover of the timbers.

"This is the DEA," Kent roared. "Backup's on its way… give up now if you want to stay alive! Why the hell are you still shooting anyway?" He figured he knew… shooting at one unarmed kid – or a cat that they _thought _was an unarmed kid…that was easy. If they didn't have the sense to stop once help had arrived, they were the low end of the drug chain. Not over bright, sent to do a simple job like beating a guy for information, quite likely on the down from coke… they were trigger-happy, in over their heads now and volatile, and they had at least two guns to his one.

Another flurry of shooting was the only reply he got, and he saw Tony push young Dominic down and throw himself across him, as splinters and ricochets flew. His friend raised his head, gestured at the truck, and called softly, "Cover us…" He came up to a crouch, pulled the boy up into the same position, and hissed at him, "Go for the rear passenger door."

The young man nodded, wide eyed, Tony nodded to Kent, and as he began to empty his magazine, the NCIS agent hauled his charge to his feet, and ran, pushing him ahead of him, back to the truck. Slamming it into drive just as rudely as before, and not really caring if the back door wasn't shut, he cramped the wheel over, revving hard, and holding the parking brake on, so the truck did an untidy spin, hurling timbers in all directions. By now Dominic had actually got both feet in and closed the door, and he had the good sense to throw himself across to open the other one. As Kent threw himself at the truck, he reached for his collar and dragged him in, head first. Tony gunned the engine, and they accelerated back towards the shattered doors. A figure with a raised gun appeared in the doorway; Tony opened his door and sideswiped him mercilessly as he went by.

"We go back for that one later, yes? What d'you bet his mates won't wait around for him?"

"I'm not betting against you on that or anything else, DiNozzo… let's hope he can tell us who's wanting to know about spark, and why… oh, _look_, here come the locals." He yelled nasally, "Too late!"

Tony yelled back, just as nasally, "Don't look, Ethel!"

They pulled up alongside the first police car laughing uproariously - Dominic looked at them as if they were both barking mad.

**AN: Anyone remember that song? 'Oh yeah they call him the streak…' we used to go around twanging 'don't look, Ethel' at the slightest excuse. Ah, those were the days….**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Nagging Cube, I used your nickname, like I said I would. Hope you don't mind. **

**Nat, I'd have replied to your review but the site didn't give me a link. So thanks!**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 3

At first Gibbs was tempted to let Ziva interrogate Sandra Strothers, but on reflection, he decided to do the job himself. If he'd left it to the Mossad officer, he'd most likely have had the minimum vital information in about thirty seconds flat, and a hysterical suspect incabable of saying anything else.

As they drove back to the Navy Yard, the unsuspecting Ms. Strothers kept up a steady stream of cheerful chatter. They hadn't arrested her; simply asked her politely if she could give them more information on the break-ins, the and how their security systems worked… she'd been happy to oblige, starting as soon as they got in the car, and smiling winsomely at the former marine.

Gibbs forced himself not to grind his teeth, or drive in his usual style, and even responded politely. Ziva, sitting in the back, had an almost overwhelming urge to pull out a knife and clean her fingernails with it. The silly woman wouldn't have noticed, she concluded. She had eyes only for Gibbs.

As they entered the building, the team leader began his questioning, without Ms. Strothers even noticing. "So, all the stuff that's brought to you… what happens to it?"

"Well, it's _recycled_, Mr. Gibbs," she said patiently, "People are only allowed to bring stuff that can be re-used."

Gibbs didn't give a hoot that he was being talked to like a five year old, as long as it got him what he wanted. "No, Ma'am, I mean _exactly_ what happens to it? I get that you sort it, but then what? Where does it go?"

"Well, it's sold… to the building trade usually. It's cheaper than brand new stuff."

"Do you do the selling?"

"Oh, no… once it's sorted we never touch it again. It goes in bulk to the reclamation yard, and they sell it."

Gibbs inquired casually, "Do you ever spot anything you'd find useful yourself?" As he spoke, he opened a door, and invited her, with a gesture, to go through it ahead of him, and for the first time a flicker of alarm crossed her face. She wasn't so naïve that she'd never seen an interrogation room in a cop show on TV. He held the chair out for her to sit down, and took the one opposite. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror behind him.

"Well…" she began nervously, "We… er… it's not exactly legal, but it's a sort of a perk of the job… I mean, everybody does it… we don't take much."

That wasn't what Gibbs had asked; it would have been his next question, except that he'd been pretty sure he wouldn't need it. "So… if you wanted a bag of cement, or sand for instance… nobody would turn a hair if they saw you take one?"

"Well… I suppose the Director of Environmental Services might object… but then –" she tried a joke – "He might come down and take one himself. Nobody on the site would object…"

"So if it's openly done, is there any reason why you'd have to turn the cameras away, and come in at five am to take one?"

_Now_ she understood the trouble she was in. "I… I don't know what you mean."

"Miz Strothers," Gibbs said lightly, "You're as bad a liar as you are a thief. You turned the cameras away from the sack you'd earmarked, but you left one pointing at the road, that filmed you in your car. You never thought to disguise yourself, so it's obvious from just the shadow who it is carrying that sack…" The manageress was white as a sheet by now, and pressing her hands up to her mouth. "What I need you to explain, though, is how you knew what was in there, and how you were able to leave it in plain sight for two days without anyone else touching it."

"I didn't know… I mean, I didn't –" Gibbs slammed his hand palm down on the table, and Sandra Strothers almost fell off her chair. Her bottom lip began to quiver. The senior agent shook his head almost imperceptibly. Yes, it definitely wouldn't have done to let Ziva do this.

In the observation room, the Israeli was thinking much the same thing. She sighed to herself. She actually rather liked her less violent statewide… no…_stateside_ self… In Israel she'd have keyed herself up to make the suspect physically very unhappy, and would by now be bursting with unreleased tension because the woman had caved so easily. Maybe it was time to learn a new way of questioning… maybe Gibbs would one day let _her_ do it his way…

The Boss simply repeated his question, without raising his voice. "How did you know what was in there?"

"Chaz told me."

"Chaz?"

"I don't know his other name. He works for the contractor who sent the load. He drove the dumpster truck, and when they'd unloaded, I saw him set the sack to one side. I thought he was earmarking it for himself, and he shouldn't do that without asking me, so I challenged him about it."

'_Wonderful,' _Gibbs thought, _'The petty pilferer objecting to some petty pilfering.'_

"He looked guilty, and told me that there was something in there that was worth a fortune, and that if I kept it safe we could share it. We… we don't _talk_ about it, it's sort of an unspoken understanding… that if we want something, each of us has a spot where we put whatever it is until we can take it away, and the others don't touch it…"

Gibbs gave a dry laugh. "If you don't talk about it you can pretend you're not doing it."

"Something like that… we don't take much…"

Gibbs didn't bother to laugh this time. "Did he tell you what it was, Miz Strothers?"

"I guessed," she said in a small voice, "So I asked him. Then he put the sack in my spot, and I checked that the camera was pointing at it."

"It didn't occur to you that the stuff was dangerous? That the one good thing to do would have been to call the DEA?" It was a rhetorical question, and certainly the woman didn't have an answer. She'd seen only dollar signs. He sighed, echoing the one that Ziva had made moments ago on the other side of the glass. "Do you know how many deaths that stuff has already been responsible for? And how dangerous the people are you're so willing to jump into bed with?" For some reason she actually looked offended at that comment. "You're lucky you're only looking at jail." He stood up abruptly and walked out of the room.

In the observation room, he spoke with Ziva. "I need to find out about this Chaz. Can you find out what they did with the stuff? Who they contacted? Anything else you can… without scaring her out of talking at all?"

Ziva lifted her chin, and suppressed a pleased smile. Then, remembering that she didn't have to suppress such things here, she beamed. "Yes, Gibbs, I can."

"Off you go, then." He left, wondering just how he'd pleased her so much. Sometimes he didn't understand women…

He half expected to find the terrible two in the bull-pen, but shrugged his shoulders… if Abby was keeping them out of mischief that had to be a Good Thing… He'd also half expected Fuller to still be around somewhere, because by rights Strothers was his affair, but the DEA chief had his own department to run…

He had begun, laboriously, to search for someone called Chaz, when DiNozzo came into the bullpen. He was struggling to get his arm back into its sling as he walked; he wasn't trying to hide what he was doing, but it still made Gibbs instantly suspicious.

"DiNozzo! Where have you been?"

Uh-oh… that huge, wide, innocent, _dangerous_ grin, that always made him want to reach for the bourbon.

"Re-qualifying, Boss." As if it were the most obvious thing on earth.

"Me too, Boss," another voice said, as McGee entered the room. Gibbs thought he might be getting a headache. He said the only thing he could think of.

"How? I've got your Sigs."

"Yeah, well, we borrowed a couple from the armourer, that felt about the same as our own… then we swapped over, just to prove we could do it with any gun… you know the Probie's come on really well, Boss… reckon we could get him to do that trick where you use a mirror and fire over your shoulder… ouch, Boss… you better not do that to Timmy, he's just had a concussion…"

Tim kept silent, grateful that Tony's antics were keeping Gibbs' attention off him.

"_Tell me again why we're doing this?"_

"_You don't have to, McCautious. But I know why I'm doing it." The SFA's voice softened. "And I know why __**you're**__ doing it, too."_

_Tim knew by his tone that he did, and nothing more was said. Tony was doing it because no matter how mad it might make the Boss, he believed it was the right thing to do… and Tim wasn't going to see him face the wrath of Gibbs alone. He figured a guy who smashed a greenhouse to save his life, and by doing so put himself in the line of fire, had to be worth a dressing down. _

"I don't suppose either of you thought to book your appointment with the department shrink?"

"Well, Boss… we know we have to at _some_ point 'cuz we were injured in the line of duty; but we don't have to do that yet…"

Gibbs wondered if this was what an impending migraine felt like. The troublemint twins stood shoulder to shoulder, wearing the same innocent smile. If there was one thing he _didn't_ want McGee to learn from Tony…

"Ya _sure_ of that, DiNozzo? Becuz I'm beginning to wonder!"

"Ah. Well, since you're already doubting my sanity, this might be a good time to tell you…"

Gibbs listened to Tony's account of his day so far with mounting incredulity, but restrained himself from saying anything; after all, he owed the lunatic standing before him with his blue canvas sling and his white, pinched face a fair hearing. He didn't intend to stay silent for ever, gathering his anger together like an approaching storm-cloud, ready to release the thunder – until Tony's final words.

"You've seen the way he's been through this case, Boss… he lost his dog, then his team member; he didn't want to lose one of his scouts. Those kids are important, and they have guts, to do what they do. He's struggling on with an understaffed department, the kid called for help, and nobody had his back. I'd do it for you… hell… I'd do more for you… I can rest up when this is over. Struth, Boss, how would you have done it any differently?"

McGee spoke softly. "I'd have gone too if Tony had let me, Boss."

Gibbs closed his eyes, wrestling with himself. The legality of Tony's position was debatable; he was an agent, he'd been carrying his badge, but – ah, hell, there was no point in even debating it. Tony would always do what Tony believed was right, no matter what the consequences to himself – and _that_ was what he was teaching McGee. The young man who had so much potential, and so much courage that he hadn't budged from Tony's shoulder, had to know, the same way that DiNozzo already did, that the Boss who demanded so much of them, understood and had their sixes no matter what.

He went to his desk, unlocked the deep bottom drawer and pulled out two Sigs and two Glocks in their holsters. He didn't need to even glance at them to know which weapons belonged to which agent. He handed them over silently, looked at the arm that was more out of than in its sling, and the yellowing bruises around Tim's eyes, then finally said, "You level with me. The _first moment_ either of you feel you're not up to this, you admit it. You're back in the field. And I'm crazy."

"Thanks, Boss."

"On your six, Boss. So… let me guess… Ziva's with the manager lady. You think we should rescue her? The manager, I mean?"

"Let's go and find out. McGee… Guy called Chaz, works for the contractors that did the work for Izzy."

"Lindley and Krause."

"Yeah. Find out everything you can about him, text Ziva with his surname, then come and join us if we're not back."

"On it, Boss." Tim lowered himself into his chair and let out a shaky breath as he powered up… he'd just learned something very important about Gibbs. He knew what it was, and it felt good, but he pushed aside any attempt to put it into words, at least until he'd found the information the Boss needed.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows in inquiry at the technician as he and Tony stepped into the observation room. Ziva was leaning back in her chair, her face expressionless as the woman opposite her sat and sniffled. "She's doing fine, Gibbs," the tech told him cheerfully. "D'you want to see?" She flicked a switch, and they watched.

"_So… you agreed to look after $2,000.000 of drugs for a man whose surname you do not even know."_

"_Two million?" Strothers gasped. "He told me fifty thousand! The cheating –" she shut up suddenly and her face acquired a mulish expression._

"_Oh, please do not stop now! You have done such a wonderful job of incriminating yourself – I am sure you can do an even better one on him!"_

"Wow," Tony said, entranced. "Ziva and sarcasm!"

"_I don't know anything!"_

"_Where did you take the cocaine when you removed it from the yard?"_

"_I put it in my garage. Chaz came by on his way to work and took it away. I don't know where he took it." Ms. Strothers sniffed loudly. Ziva pulled a handy-size pack of tissues from her pocket and passed it across the table without comment. Ms. Strothers blew her nose._

"_Where did he take it to?"_

"_I don't know!"_

"_What was he intending to do with it?"_

"_I don't know that either!"_

"_Hmm… his concept of 'sharing' and yours seem to be rather different. Did he mention any other names?"  
_

"_No!"Ziva gave her a look that said 'I do not believe you and I am becoming very bored', and the manager shrank down in her seat. She sat for a long time, silent except for the odd sniff. Ziva neither moved nor spoke. "Yes… er… he said I'd get my share as soon as he'd talked to someone called Stork."_

_Ziva blinked. "Stork? As in the bird?"  
_

"_Yes! That's all I know."_

_Ziva yawned. "Try harder, Miz Strothers."_

The tech smiled. "That's where we're up to," she said. "They've not spoken for nearly five minutes, but the lady keeps sniffing like a dripping tap. Officer David yawns occasionally, but doesn't make a big deal of –" She broke off, as Ziva pushed her hand into her hip pocket, and gently eased her cell-phone out. She glanced down, and smiled very slightly, then just as discreetly put the phone away again.

After a few moments, she said, "So… Chaz Tressel… you know he has a record, and you still trusted him?"

"I didn't know – how did you know his name? He said –"

"Yes? He said? Miz Strothers, if you know anything more, and I am quite certain you do, now is the only chance you will get to tell us. When we find out without your help, you are no longer of any use to us, and you will have to take your own chances with the judge. Now, as I said, try harder!"

"He…" sniff – "he asked me if I had any cement in the yard… he said he thought it wasn't cut – is that the word? – much, and he was going to make it go further. I gave him a bag… about an hour before you arrived. That's all I know!" she wailed. Ziva got up and left her.

"Cement," Tony said disgustedly. "Inflammation to the nasal passages and the lungs…well I suppose it's better than being dead." Gibbs nodded soberly, and a moment later Ziva entered the observation room.

"Nice work, Ziver," Gibbs said.

"And well done for keeping your hands off her," Tony added.

Ziva shrugged. "She is beneath contempt," she said matter-of-factly. "I think she finally spoke truly. That is all she knows. The text from McGee came at a good moment. I was contemplating a more physical approach –" she broke off as Tony's phone buzzed.

"Yeah, Kent. Yeah, he's here." His face went hard. "Three. Are they alive? Two. Shit. Yeah, I'll tell him. We're on our way." He disconnected, and looked at Gibbs, his eyes blazing now with anger. He glanced through the glass at the woman sitting there, then turned away. "Potomac park, Boss," he said flatly. "Three young men having a farewell speedball party. Starling stuff. Two marines about to start their first Iraqui tour, and a pal…" His jaw tightened, as he bitterly remembered his earlier comment. "The pal and one marine are dead"

**AN: Sorry, a day late…once I start a story I try to post every other day, but RL had the nerve to intrude.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Well, all you US soccer fans… this would have been up earlier if I hadn't stopped to watch my lot - except for Stevie G - publicly embarrassing themselves against you! No wonder Clint Dempsey raised prayerful hands to heaven… good luck with your other matches… go Tim Howard!**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 4

Kent Fuller was talking to someone who was clearly the local cop in charge, as the NCIS agents approached.

"I spoke to my chief, sorted the jurisdiction problem at least as far as we're concerned," the cop was saying. "With two agencies involved, we're happy to cede here. If you keep us posted, we're happy to let you have anything we might get. I'll send you the witness statements we took." They shook hands, and the cops, who'd marked out a perimeter then awaited instructions, departed, leaving two officers to discourage the curious.

Kent looked weary and despairing as he greeted NCIS. "The marine who survived is critical," he said, coming straight to the point. "Don't know when or if we'll be able to get a statement from him. Witnesses – two young female runners – say they saw the three walking through the park an hour ago, laughing and joking. They smiled at them. They did the circuit once, and saw them again, sitting under the trees. They waved, so they decided they'd go over and talk to them after the next circuit. When they came round again, they knew something was wrong straight away. Their prompt call may have saved one life, but it was too late for two of them. It was that quick."

He pointed to some flattened grass at the foot of a tree close by where the two young men lay, their bodies still twisted with the effort of trying to draw breath. "The third victim may have survived because of something as simple as the fact that he was sitting up, leaning against that tree."

Tim, nodded thoughtfully. "It's easier to breathe sitting than lying. But he's critical all the same."

Kent waved an arm at the bodies, his face creased with frustration. "How many more? I let this get away from me once – how many more people is this stuff going to kill?"

Gibbs said mildly, "Don't recall you even knew it existed when it got away."

Fuller couldn't fault that logic, and he smiled wanly, but it didn't last long.

McGee added his crumb of comfort. "Nothing's good about two people dying;" he said sadly, "But the fact that one was a Marine brings us on board, so at least you have some help on this."

Kent sort of smiled again. "First time I worked with you guys, I told my boss I never wanted to ever again," he said wryly.

"Feel differently now, then?" Tony asked smugly.

"Still not sure about you, DiNozzo."

Tony concealed his grin as Ducky came hurrying across the grass.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

There was little to be found where the young men had died; the packs that the dope had been in when they bought it were pretty standard, and all they could hope was that perhaps Abby could find a print that didn't belong to a victim. Kent let his team know that he was going to NCIS again, and they went back to compare notes.

Standing around the plasma screen, Gibbs and Ziva filled Kent in on what Ms. Strothers had said. He nodded thoughtfully. "Do we know if he took the cement at the same time that he took the drugs?"

"She did not say either way, but I can find out. She is still here in interrogation," Ziva told him. "Is this important?"

"It could be," Kent said. Tony and Gibbs kept silent, already knowing why; Ziva was seeking information, and Tim, although he could hazard a guess, thought it best to hear what the expert said. "It's clear that at least some of it went on the market uncut," Kent went on. "Usually, for the practice of speedballing, the buyer expects a higher quality from the cocaine, but nobody ever expects it to be pure. So whoever made up the speedballs was an idiot in two ways. If you cut it you make more money, which is what matters to them, so if they didn't check, that's stupid. If what they're selling kills people, they won't get rid of it so easily, which, again, is what's important to them. It also brings them to the attention of people like us, who don't like them killing. That's _really_ stupid of them."

There was that bleakness, that blackness in his eyes that they'd seen before. The DEA chief was a dangerous man, as dangerous as they were; he might be allowing himself a moment of despondency just now, but they didn't doubt that together, they'd deal with this latest twist in the tale of the Starling consignment, just as they had the others. He could do without any of his agents getting hurt this time, though, Gibbs added to himself.

Tony was thinking how desperately brought down and serious they all were; how much the deaths of two foolish but essentially innocent young men weighed on them. He wanted to make a silly joke to lighten things, but he hadn't the heart to even try.

"So, if there are not to be more deaths, you would prefer to hear that the cutting had taken place," Ziva supposed. 

"That's right. Cutting it with cement is bad enough, it causes its own problems." 

"Severe inflammation of the nasal passages, and lungs," Tony put in, feeling his chest tighten at the mere thought. Fuller winced. He'd never actually talked with Tony about it, but he'd heard the urban legend of the fed who'd taken his fifteen per cent chance and beaten what most gossips erroneously called the Black Death, and knew it was true.

He flashed him a sympathetic grimace. "That's right," he agreed. "And that can lead to death too if a user has other health problems. Just not so frequently. It wouldn't be a certainty, if Tressel came _back_ and asked for the cement, that he'd thought better of passing it on pure, and was about to start cutting it right away, but it would suggest it."

"I will find out at once," Ziva said, more happily, and hurried out.

"It might give us an idea of what to expect," Tim said. "Which reminds me…" he left the group and returned to his desk.

"And any information's better than none" Gibbs added. "It can be used or discarded later." A face came up on the plasma.

"Ziva mentioned this; she called to tell me to join you, to go to the crime scene. I'd found Tressel, so I set up a search on the word 'stork', and left it to run while we were away."

The face on the screen was of a mournful black man with huge, soulful, sad eyes and a long nose. "Hosea Manders, height six foot six and a half inches, AKA Stork. String of minor convictions, fencing, larceny, only one drug related. Never shown up as anything but small time. One of Chaz Tressel's convictions is for breaking and entering. No better candidate shows up as a possibility for his friend."

"Nice work, McGee." Gibbs paused as Ziva returned.

"Tressel came back to the reclamation yard two days later to ask for the cement," she said. "I understand that we can assume nothing, but this may be good news, yes?"

There were nods of agreement all round, and Gibbs looked at Fuller. "What about your scout, and the guy DiNozzo made into a pancake?"

"Dominic's got a few bruises, but he'll be OK. They asked him about the 'spark', because they'd seen him talking to Alex Hahn, who's on my team. Alex always acts a bit physical and threatening, so the scouts don't look willing to be talking to him, and Dom figured they wanted to know what he'd wanted. Had the fed been asking about the uncut stuff, and what had he told Dom? The kid didn't know anything, so he ran. I've seen to it that he'll get an extra payment, and told him to stay low until he goes back to college in ten days time. But it was clear that word had got out already. Didn't take long to find out how – DiNozzo's pancake."

Tony smiled dubiously. "My pancake's talking?"

"You didn't hit him _that _hard, DiNozzo."

"No…" Tony said, at last seizing on a chance at levity. "I mean, I only caught a glimpse of him before I pointed out the foolishness of taking on a truck when all you've got is a teeny little Ruger…"

"It was a Beretta."

"Oh, well, of course _you _had time to look. I was busy. Ahem… as I was saying, only a glimpse… but if that Neanderthal was capable of human speech before I hit him, I'd be surprised."

"_Just shut up and listen,"_ Gibbs, Kent _and_ Ziva all said at once. Tim looked disappointed that he hadn't thought of it.

"Talking pancake. I'm listening," Tony said with the usual gleam in his eyes.

"The pancake's name is Ethan Walker. He works for Oscar Sablea."

There was a moment of silence, then Tony gave a low whistle. They'd all heard of Oscar Sablea. Ziva said, "I have heard that name, but I do not know much."

Tony sighed. "We put away Walt Pascoe. He was pretty big. We dealt with Dale Nickless, who, given his nastiness, would probably have become bigger. Neither of them were anything like as big as Sablea, everyone wants to put him away, and no-one's ever managed to pin anything on him. Public benefactor, friend of senators, legitimate businessman… fingers in every illegal pie on the East Coast…" Tony suddenly thought of his father, and fell abruptly silent.

Kent, who knew nothing of DiNozzo's past, it was the last subject that ever came up when Tony talked to a friend - simply thought he was allowing him to continue. "One of Sablea's guys was on remand for dealing; he got talking to Aldo Gigli in prison. Remember him? He told Sablea's guy about the stuff that went in the landfill. He said Sablea wasn't so stupid as to believe that was what really happened. He's into construction… knows city ordinances, and who to bribe… he knew about recycling laws. I'm prepared to bet that we'll find that one of his people's had a quiet word with someone at the reclaiming yard… money will have changed hands, and by now Sablea knows who took that bag of sand."

"Chaz Tressel may not know it yet," Gibbs said wryly, "but he's in big trouble. So's Stork," he said, jerking a thumb at the plasma screen.

"Oh, yeah," Fuller said. "DiNozzo's pancake said as much. Sablea doesn't mind enterprising small businessmen… he's a pragmatist."

"My pancake knew the word '_pragmatist'_?" Tony said. There was an oddly bitter note in his voice, although it was quite possible that only Gibbs noticed it. He had certainly been the only one to notice the SFA's abrupt change of mood, and he threw him a look.

_Hey… I understand. But back on track here… _DiNozzo blinked slowly, and nodded imperceptibly as Kent went on.

"What he doesn't like are rank amateurs, people who rock the boat. Warner said that the word had gone out, all the way down the line, to find these guys, and something else Sablea likely knows by now, is that we've got Little Miss Strothers."

"So he knows that we're looking for Tressel," Tony said. 

"And we know that he's looking for Tressel," Tim said.

"And he knows that we know," Tony picked up.

"And we know that he knows…" Tim was starting to enjoy himself.

"And he knows that -nmfggh!" Gibbs administered two headslaps at once, with perfect timing. And smiled. Tony was back on track.

"If this Sablea is so much to be feared, why was this pretzel… er, pancake, so willing to talk?" Ziva asked.

"He wanted a deal. He's a pragmatist too – he screwed up, and although Sablea isn't known for hunting down minor henchmen who make mistakes, he knows he won't be welcome back. So, he's looking out for himself best way he can. So… Gibbs, how d'you want to play this?"

"You're OK with us taking the lead again?"

Fuller shrugged, his natural good humour emerging for the first time in hours. "Seemed to work OK last time."

Gibbs thought for a moment. "You're the people who know who to talk to. Get your team out in the field, you know who to ask, what to ask. Ya wanna take DiNozzo? Get him out of my hair for a bit?" Tony feigned outrage. Tim's was a bit more genuine. Gibbs saw his look, and shook his head. "Oh, no. I've been conned by you two once today… McGee, I need you here. Check credit card activity, vehicles. Talk to Metro. They can have Miss Strothers, tell them not to let anyone snatch her. She don't know squat. Update them, see what they can give you. Any electronic thing else you can think of. Ziva, you and me, last known addresses."

He turned to leave, following Fuller and DiNozzo, then swung back. "If there's anything significant in the autopsies, call me. If anyone else dies, call me. You can get some help in if you need to. For instance, I know Special Agent Cassidy is bored out of her brain with cold cases in Quantico, waiting for her new team to be assigned…" He swept out. Tim pouted for a moment, then decided he could do most of it from the lab, and went to see if Abby had raised a print.

Kent decided that it would be good to have Blossom along, and they set off in the truck to fetch her. Tony noticed with a grin that there was still a chunk of rotten boathouse door lodged in the Ranger's radiator grille. They were scarcely mobile, when Kent's cell phone buzzed. He listened for a few moments, grunted an affirmative a few times, and disconnected. He pulled over to the kerb and frowned.

"One of my usual informers," he said. "Knows we're looking for what he called killer spark. Says he knows something, wants to meet us."

"D'you trust him?"

"As far as I trust anyone out there, I guess. He's not let me down yet… and before you say it, I _always_ treat these things as potential traps. Just like you do."

Tony grinned. "Well, that's fine then. I'm right _behind_ you."

"Gee, thanks, DiNozzo. You're all heart."

The address the informant had given the agents turned out to be a small dry-cleaners, with a notice in the window that said 'Closed for the holidays', and there was no immediate sign of Albie the informant. The two feds drew their guns and tried the door. It opened into a neat, well-cared for shop, with everything in place and looking exactly as would be expected if the owners were simply out of town for a while. Tony eased his way into the back room, where the cleaning machines were, while Kent glanced up and down the street.

A crash and a thud brought his attention back to the shop; lifting his gun in both hands he hurried into the back room. Nothing seemed out of order, until he saw an ironing board upturned, and Tony's legs sticking out from behind a drying rack. His friend lay unconscious on his side, his gun still in his hand. There was nobody else in sight. Kent tried to walk the last few steps to Tony's side, but his legs didn't seem to be working properly. His knees were like jelly, and buckled under him. The last thing he was aware of was Tony's shoe digging into his ribs as he collapsed across his feet.

Consciousness came back slowly. The DEA chief realised that he no longer had a toe digging into his gut, and he wasn't lying on cold concrete. He could smell…leather, and fabric, and flowers… and brandy? He opened his eyes slowly, and found he was sitting in an old red wing chair of soft leather, in a comfortable, book lined room. From the grandeur of the tall windows with their heavy brocade drapes, he concluded that he was in some fine country house. On the low table in front of him was a decanter, and beside it two cut glass brandy balloons. His gun was back in its holster.

He looked around, and became instantly alert; on the sofa opposite, Tony lay pale faced and unmoving, and Kent thought, as he lurched across to him, that there was something wrong about himself passing out last and waking up first.

"Tony. _Tony!_" There was no response. He put his fingers on his friend's neck; the pulse was slow and lethargic. His chest barely moved. "Tony, wake up. Wake up… come on…" He looked around the room. "What did you give us? What did he breathe? Where are you? Come on… he has scarred lungs… he can't take gas inhalation…" He suddenly knew whose house they were in. "Oscar Sablea… do you _want_ him to die?"

**AN: Only checked once for typos… I can check three times and still miss them… sorry…**


	5. Chapter 5

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 5

Gibbs looked at his watch again… night was closing in, and he hadn't heard from DiNozzo in two hours. He and Ziva had turned up nothing at Stork's last known address; the landlady had said rather huffily that _Mr. Manders_ had paid his rent up to the last day she saw him, told her he was looking for something a bit more upmarket, (sniff), and disappeared. Another neighbour said that the Stork had been driving a new car when he flew away. He'd never seen him with a car at all before.

Nobody at his apartment building had seen Chaz Tressel for a couple of days. Alex Hahn brought Blossom over, and she showed interest in the kitchen and the bedroom, but there was nothing left. Tressel's stained bed sheets suggested he'd had company, with whom he'd quite possibly been sampling the goods, so they took the linen for analysis.

The boss at the construction company was wearily unsurprised. He'd known of Chaz's record, and given him a chance. He'd been a good enough worker, and he'd never _caught_ him doing anything illegal, but he'd simply not turned up for work three days ago, and there'd been no contact. They were looking to replace him.

When they returned to the bullpen, they found a mostly frustrated McGee, whose attempts to follow electronic trails had been largely unsuccessful. He called Paula Cassidy, but she had been unable to come over, having gone to the Pentagon to meet her new team. She'd sounded, Tim thought, as if wild horses wouldn't have got her to the Navy Yard anyway. Nothing she'd actually said out loud, but Tim was learning to read between the lines. Or was that hear between the sentences? He sighed.

The only bit of success he'd had came after Gibbs had called in to update him; he'd looked at CCTV footage near Stork's lodgings, and found film of the tall man arriving and departing in a newish Beemer. He got the number, and found that the vehicle was in police custody. It had been impounded not three hours previously, as it had been abandoned in a restricted zone. The owner had made no attempt to reclaim it. Tim arranged for it to be brought over to Abby.

Kent's team had nothing to report; by now everyone they spoke to had heard about the 'spark', but nobody knew anything. Ducky confirmed that the young marine and his friend died from respiratory failure due to the use of chemical substances; Abby was testing blood and tissue samples. The other marine remained critical. By the time Gibbs and Ziva returned, that was the sum total of the afternoon's work; and nobody had heard from Fuller and DiNozzo.

"No signal from either cell phone, Boss," Tim said quietly. "I've put out a bolo on Agent Fuller's truck, but no immediate results." He tapped some keys. "Both phones went off grid at the same time… about twenty minutes after they left here." He lifted his eyes from the screen and looked at Gibbs with silent anxiety. The Boss pursed his lips and nodded; he didn't have any comfort to offer.

"Alex Hahn said they were meeting an informant," he said finally. "See if he's heard anything."

"On it, Boss."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Kent hauled Tony into a sitting position; he was breathing, after a fashion, so mouth-to-mouth wasn't necessary. _'I'll say thank heavens later…'_ he thought. "Come on, DiNozzo…" He pounded on his friend's back to try to drive any residual gas out of his lungs, and dislodge congestion. He was winging it; he imagined that after the plague Gibbs had been told what to do in such an emergency, but he hadn't. He put his arms round Tony's waist from behind, and squeezed his ribs, pushing hard against his diaphragm, and was rewarded by a weak cough from his friend. He propped him up against the back of the sofa, removed his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt.

As Tony whooped in air and began to cough again, two men hurried in. One was carrying an oxygen mask and cylinder. Kent looked at them warily, but moved aside to let them work. Only after the heaving of the Italian's chest had subsided, and he'd stopped coughing, did he risk challenging them. "What the hell did you give us?"

"I am told nitrous oxide, Sir," the man who wasn't still holding the mask up to Tony's face replied in an urbane English accent. "I have always understood that this is a harmless anaesthetic."

"For people with undamaged lungs, that is," Kent said in a hard voice. He glared. "For someone with scars from severe pneumonia, it's a bit damn different!"

"That's unfortunate," another voice said from behind him, and Kent turned to see Oscar Sablea standing leaning on two sticks, and looking for all the world like a concerned old uncle. "I'm afraid we had to lay our plans rather quickly; our dossier on you is rather more comprehensive than that on Special Agent DiNozzo. At the time we thought that a harmless gas was the least unpleasant way of getting you here."

"Well, that's really nice to know," Tony rasped, pushing the mask away.

"Please, keep the oxygen by you," Sablea told him. "If you experience more discomfort, it may help. Robert, perhaps you'd be good enough to pour our guests some brandy."

Kent shook his head. "No alcohol for twenty-four hours after anaesthesia," he said calmly, thinking how amazingly together he was in the face of all this surrealism.

"I'd probably just throw it up again," Tony said gloomily, looking longingly at the Remy Martin. He sank back against the sofa again. Kent looked at him curiously. "What?"

"Painkillers make you loopy, laughing gas _doesn't?_" The Italian shrugged, eloquently and apologetically.

"Then Robert will bring some tea." The butler and his assistant withdrew, and Oscar Sablea came slowly forward and lowered his wiry, arthritic frame down into the taller partner of the chair Kent had regained consciousness in. The DEA chief stayed on the sofa alongside his ailing friend, and regarded him steadily. "If your dossier was up to date," he said curiously, "you'd know that DiNozzo only left hospital this morning."

"Ah, yes. My colleagues observed the presence of a wound dressing on his right shoulder. They were careful not to aggravate it." He looked directly at Tony. "A souvenir of your taking down of Dale Nickless, no doubt. Something for which I am grateful."

Tony, curled round his hurting chest, didn't bother to answer. "You went to a lot of trouble to bring us here," Kent Fuller said. "It can't have been to thank us for putting Nickless out of business."

Sablea smiled gently. "Ah, but I meant what I said," he assured them. "There's room in business for the small as well as the large; we can co-exist, and benefit each other. What there isn't room for is the rogue… the fool, the egotist, who only sees the short term, the small picture. Who only thinks of himself. Those at the top in any business like to retain ultimate control." He sounded like a director at a board meeting. "Nickless was a liability."

He waited, the gracious host, while Robert brought the tea in and served everyone. Both Tony and Kent noted that the fine bone china cups were inverted on the saucers as the tray was carried in, so there was less chance of there being something _inside_ them that they wouldn't like. They didn't think it was a serious threat, working through the line of thought independently; nevertheless Tony warned Kent, who was far more able-bodied than he was right then, with a flash of his eyes _not_ to drink until he'd taken a few cautious sips himself. He actually closed his eyes blissfully for a moment; the drink was warm, fragrant and soothing, and he was able to keep it down.

Oscar Sablea beamed. "I'm glad to see you feel better, Agent DiNozzo," he said. "Believe me, our intention wasn't to hurt you. Quite the opposite in fact." Tony didn't feel as if he had to be polite, and raised one unconvinced eyebrow. "Oh, yes. I was hoping that I could be of some use. I have a gift for you."

The door opened, and two men thrust a third one before them into the library. He wasn't even cuffed; the Stork wasn't putting up any resistance at all. The surrealism didn't end there; the butler, Robert, brought a plate of arrowroot biscuits, and set it down on the table. "I believe, Sir, that these are known to settle the digestion," he said kindly, and took the brandy away.

"I'm sorry to tell you," Sablea went on quietly, "that the second young marine died in Bethesda hospital an hour ago, without regaining consciousness. Mr. Manders does not, apparently, have the knowledge, experience or expertise to handle the materials he got from Mr. Tressel. I have come to the conclusion that he doen't have the intelligence either. Such senseless, pointless killings. It's not the way I like to see things run. Mr. Manders is quite willing to tell you how many shots he has sold, how many he still has left, and where they are. Aren't you, Mr. Manders?"

The would-be drug baron, towering over his two guards, thin and gaunt seemingly to the point of malnutrition, nodded wordlessly.

"Hopefully you will be able to retrieve the situation before any more damage is done. At any rate, you have your marine killer." He smiled beneficently.

Tony drew a deep breath in slowly, not wanting to be seen to struggle. "I've always been a bit sceptical where gifts are concerned," he said. "What do you want from us?"

Sablea frowned, as if hurt. "You think I want something, Special Agent DiNozzo?"

"_Senhor _Sablea," Tony replied calmly, "of course you do. You haven't, so far, shown any inclination to kill us, which you could have done at the dry cleaners. You went to some trouble to bring us here, and your _gift_ has a feel of quid pro quo to it. You want something back."

Sablea repositioned his smile. He was third generation American, but the fed was astute enough to recognise the Portuguese surname. Oh, and to use a Latin quotation, and not take things at face value.

_Shame on you, Oscar, for doing just that. You should know better. You've assumed that a confrontational manner means lack of brain or education. These two are ranking federal officers, and brave men. And of course they were likely to see through you. Well, let's see how this will play out._

"Very well, Agent DiNozzo – I want you to leave Tressel to me."

Tony answered with a question. "If we hadn't taken Nickless down, how would you have handled him?"

"I wouldn't have. He wasn't anything more than a nuisance, at that time. But it's not surprising that people like him make enemies… when he became more than a nuisance to… _others…_a flying accident, perhaps…"

"So we leave Chaz alone, and he has an accident."

"And almost $2,000.000 worth of cocaine still hits the streets," Kent added mordantly.

"It doesn't work like that, _Senhor_," Tony said, pushing himself up from the sofa and not wobbling even slightly. Kent instantly rose as well, to help him if he needed it. "We're not judge and jury… we enforce the law, and we catch the people who don't. We don't get to decide who lives and dies – "

He was beginning to breathe hard, and Kent stepped in. "And neither do you. You can kill us, but you can't make deals with us." He jerked a thumb at Stork, and said, sarcastically, "No offence, but we'd have caught him without any help. So unless you _are_ intending to kill us, then we'll just take our gift, and go back to doing our job."

"Are you _sure_ I can't make deals with you? You're a married man, Agent Fuller… it must be very expensive bringing up children –"

It was the wrong thing to say. Fuller advanced on the crime magnate, eyes mad, and towered over him as he sat in his tall armchair. The click of two handguns being cocked didn't stop him. "_Senhor," _he said flatly, "If you hurt my family in any way, no amount of money, or power or influence will be able to save you."

Tony stepped to his side, and although he laid a restraining hand on Fuller's arm, his words weren't placatory in the slightest. "You've led a long life; you must have seen it before. If a man has nothing to lose, he has nothing to stop him either." He staggered slightly, and Kent was completely taken in by it; his attention turned from facing down Sablea, to supporting his colleague, which was just what Tony had intended. "You can kill us, and if you don't want us to take him with us, you'll have to."

"You're prepared to do that? For _him_?"

"We've already said all this. Not judge and Jury? Doing our jobs?" Now it was Tony who was sailing very close to the wind. "You can kill us, and it won't make any difference. Other people like us will just go right on with the job." This time the stagger was genuine. Damn.

Sablea was aware of the other eyes in the room. Robert, the butler; who belonged to the house, and remained aloof from its comings and goings as a good butler should.

His two henchmen; who still held their guns, and would shoot if ordered to, but he didn't surround himself with eager killers; he preferred to be civilised.

If there was killing to be done, he would always manipulate someone else into doing it if possible. That way, according to his somewhat twisted standards, his hands remained clean. To order the shots now would be the cold blooded execution of brave men… nevertheless he could see that he'd made a mistake, and these two were going to become a severe thorn in his side. Well, it would have to be some other way…

He beckoned to one of his men, who holstered his gun and came over. Sablea whispered in his ear, and he left. He waved a hand almost languidly. "Gentlemen, please sit down again; this is getting us no-where. Clearly, we can't reach an agreement, but I don't go back on my word. The gift is yours to keep. Now, I was going to have my colleagues administer some more of the gas for your return journey. This house, although I avail myself of it frequently, does not belong to me, and I have no wish for you to know its name, or location, or ownership."

He pursed his lips in vexation. "Clearly, that cannot be done again; we must resort to other means. You will submit to being blindfolded; if you will not agree to wearing them, then I am afraid it will have to be the gas, with all its risks to you, Special Agent DiNozzo."

Both men nodded, somewhat wryly, and the man who'd left the room returned. As he was covering their eyes, Sablea went on, "You'll be travelling by car, then by plane. My colleagues may go straight to their destination, they may not. I shouldn't waste time trying to figure out where you are. Goodbye, gentlemen."

They didn't bother to reply, as they were hauled to their feet. Both were aware of guns in their sides, as they were led out of the room. Behind them, they could hear heavy, nervous breathing that could only be Hosea 'Stork' Manders. Nobody spoke at all, until about ten minutes later, when they were urged out of the vehicle they'd been travelling in, and one of their guards said "Steps." Tony felt his hand being placed on a guard rail, and climbed up into what he guessed from the three risers, was a small passenger aircraft. The engine noise suggested turboprop.

He was pushed quite gently into a seat, and someone else fastened his belt. "Leave the blindfold on," he was ordered. Or maybe that was Kent, since he hadn't actually been trying to take his off. If he were going to, now wouldn't be the time, and he definitely didn't want any more of that gas. He took a deep breath, and made himself relax into his seat. He didn't know how long the flight would be, and a rest would do him nothing but good. He felt around for a lever to tilt his seat back, and then felt someone grasp his forearm, and then his hand. "Kent," he chuckled. "I don't know if you're scared of flying… but I am definitely not holding your hand."

"Jerk," Kent said with a laugh. "I was actually looking for your shoulder, but it's kinda disorientating. I was just going to suggest that you took a rest."

"Well, hell," a reasonable impersonation of Gibbs rumbled out, "that's kinda what I was trying to do, Fuller!" They both chuckled and fell silent.

Tony didn't know whether he slept or not; but before he knew it they were in another car, and he'd no sooner registered that than they were being turfed out of it again. "You can take the blindfolds off now," the same voice informed them. They did, and it was dark, so their eyes adjusted quickly. They were outside the dry cleaners shop again, and fifty yards down the road, Fuller's DEA truck was parked.

"The engine's running," their former captor said. "Your ammo clips and cell-phones are in there. We put your phones in a lead box and left them transmitting, by the way… they're flat as cowpats. Here's your gift." He shoved Stork towards them, and backed off into the darkness. "Have a nice evening."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I had a tooth removed this afternoon. I've already whinged mightily about it to Di, and Cheeky, and TesubCalle… so why am I whingeing to everyone? Well, if this chapter's rubbish, I suppose I've got an excuse. Please continue to bear in mind that I know nothing about drugs, including the pricing…**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 6

"Word's got around," Alex Hahn was saying. "We put it out that the stuff was unsafe, lots of people we spoke to already knew. We'll be updated if there are any more incidents, so will you, whether they're your jurisdiction or not."

Gibbs nodded his thanks; he was certain without asking that McGee would already have taken care of that, but Hahn was trying to be helpful. He knew that Fuller's deputy didn't really need to be there to give his update, but he understood. The DEA agent was worried about his boss, just as Gibbs was worried about Tony, and being here at least made him feel as if he was doing something. Dammit, DiNozzo…

Blossom sat patiently by Hahn's feet, but even she was restless, picking up on the mood of the humans. Every time the elevator dinged, or someone walked by, she jumped up, then sighed and sat down again. She was only doing what he wouldn't let himself do, Gibbs thought, and reached down to rub the Springer's ears sympathetically. The little dog snuffled, and then lifted her head, as the sound of approaching boots caught her attention.

Abby could have called, both Gibbs and McGee were thinking the same thing, but she was another one who didn't want to be alone just now. Ziva, returning from autopsy, came hurrying behind her, and Abby, silent for once, but just about vibrating, stood aside for her to report first. Gibbs smothered his usual bark. "What have you got?"

"Ducky informs me that he will not perform the autopsy on the second marine," she said. "He will accept the hospital's findings, since they already know what medication was given in order to try to save the young man. They will send a report, and blood and tissue samples to us, for Abby to compare." She paused. "I believe that Ducky was a little disappointed at my visit," she added. "I am certain he wanted to come up here." She didn't sound puzzled; Gibbs thought she was beginning to understand the way this team took things personally, and he knew that she too was anxious about Tony.

Abby glanced over at the elevator doors, which mulishly refused to ding for her, clasped her hands in front of her like a schoolgirl, and took a deep breath. "The substance that poisoned the marines and their friend was from the Starling Stash, and the heroin profile that Agent Fuller's analyst gave me, heavily cut with baking soda. The cocaine content was still double what you might expect." Another involuntary look at the elevator. Agent Hahn echoed it. "Nothing new there. But, I do have some good news, very good news in fact, or it would be,_ Gibbs, haven't you heard __**anything**_?"

"Nothing, Abs."

The forensic scientist's glance went to Tim's desk, but he wasn't there. "Well… Tim had this Stork guy's Beemer brought over, and I found the rest of his stash. Two hundred and ninety-one speedballs, ready to go… in a secret compartment. That's…two hundred and ninety-one fewer possible deaths… that's good news, isn't it, Gibbs?" She looked at him soulfully; any other time she'd have been jumping so high those boots would have rattled the entire bull-pen.

"Attagirl, Abs," Gibbs said, and seeing the relieved look on Alex Hahn's face, he added, "That has to help you, Agent Hahn."

Alex nodded. He still didn't smile, the worry was too strong, but he reassured Abby. "It's very good news, Miss Sciuto –"

"Abby," she said automatically.

"Alex. It could mean that only the few that may be out there unused are still a threat."

"Do people keep them around or a special occasion? Or do they usually do the stuff right away?"

"Right away, Abby. You know, it's that addictive, and of course there's the risk of being caught with it on you."

"But you said 'could'," Abby worried. "You're not sure."

"Well, Stork had already sold enough to buy himself a car; we could really do with knowing how much he paid for it, and how much he paid Tressel for his kilo, to take a reasonable guess at what could be left. Or, we need to get Stork, and just make him tell us."

Gibbs said, "We had a look round his lodgings, didn't find anything; we could get a search warrant, but it wasn't the sort of place you'd leave anything of value lying around."

Alex nodded. "I'd hope, since we've heard no bad news from the hospitals, that the threat's over – or at least nearly over. Of course, there are nine more kilos out there…"

Abby also refused to be totally comforted. "It doesn't get us any closer to finding Tony and K-" The elevator pinged, their heads swung round, Blossom leapt up, and it was McGee.

"Er… sorry," he said, having no idea what he was apologising for, but aware of the five baleful glares he was receiving. "I was just seeing Ben Warner off the premises. He's a college friend of John Fehr, the civilian who was killed. There was a message from him on Warner's phone saying 'give me my boots back, you dork' and I wondered if he'd stolen them to pay for…" He caught Gibbs' look, and interpreted it as 'Today, McGee', and hurried on.

"I called him, and he offered to come in and give a statement. They were pals, played on the ice-hockey team at GWU, he'd taken their boots to be sharpened, and hidden them just to rag his mate. He gave them back yesterday… well, he said Fehr had told him he'd speedballed once and liked it, and he was going to treat his two Marine pals to a farewell shot before they went away. He said the marines had never done it before. Warner tried to talk him out of it, thought he had done. He's pretty upset – something else to chalk up to the Starling stash." He sighed sadly. "I don't know if that contributes anything, but I guess lack of tolerance to the drug could have been a factor in their deaths."

There was silence for a moment. "Nice work, McGee," Gibbs finally said. Tim perked a little at the compliment, but said nothing.

"This secret compartment," Hahn said thoughtfully. "How was it done?"

"Built into the transmission tunnel," Abby said. "Manual gearbox, rear wheel drive… I thought the tunnel was just a little too long to be good design – the rear passengers would catch their feet on it, so I lifted the carpet, and there it was. The shape of the tunnel was extended backwards by a hood, welded down, smoothed and sprayed, a slot in the side to release a hatch, very clever. The carpet was fixed to tuck under the rear seat so you'd never know you could lift it."

"From what we know of Stork, he wouldn't have been able to do that," Alex said. "When we catch up with him, it might be useful to know who he got the car from. Like, maybe another pusher going up in the world."

"I'll see if there's any legal trail to follow on that," Tim said, and went back to his desk. He began to pull out his chair, then exclaimed "What?" in surprise. He crashed down into the chair and began hitting keys furiously. "Boss… I left a search running after the cell signals vanished… and six minutes ago… Tony's cell phone -" Suddenly they were all round Tim's desk, murmuring at once… He ran the sequence again to show them. "Five seconds worth of weak signal… five miles away… then it died again."

"Yeah, that's because they ran them down so they were no use to us," a voice said. Blossom yipped, and ran to Kent, her whole body wagging, never mind her tail. He gathered her up, and she showered him with smelly doggy kisses, then would have jumped across to Tony and done the same, if her handler hadn't remembered his bad arm and stopped her. Not even she had heard the elevator this time.

Abby began to advance on Tony, glaring. Ziva came from the other side, and for a moment, Tim found himself smiling at the sight of the two women jostling for position over who was going to yell at the SFA first. "DiNozzo –" Gibbs began furiously, then thought to himself that the SFA couldn't have been any paler if he'd been charged down by Abby wielding a gallon drum of Brilliant White Vinyl Silk, and his voice softened. "OK, I'm listening." 

"Don't look at me like that, Boss," the SFA said softly, under the general buzz of conversation. "I'm fine. No, really. Sablea didn't try to kill us –"

"Sablea?"

"Yeah. Kinda thought he'd have liked to…. Anyways, I slept on the plane –"

"_Plane?"_

"Yeah… and we've got Stork. In interrogation one." He'd known that that would take the attention from him, and sidled over to McGee as Kent took up the tale of their afternoon. "Probie," he asked quietly, " D'you have anything urgent running? Need you to look at something… ASAP."

"Sure. Shouldn't you sit down? You look –"

"If you tell me 'like crap', McGee, I swear you'll regret it. I'll get creative. I'll… " He deflated suddenly. "Hell, it doesn't matter." He put up no resistance when Tim grabbed his elbow, and pulled him towards his own desk. Ziva observed, but said nothing. What had Gibbs called them? The trouble hint twins? No… she swore in Hebrew under her breath, and paid attention to what Fuller was saying about Stork.

The Probie pushed the SFA down into the chair he'd just shot out of, perched on the edge of his desk, and turned his monitor and keyboard towards him. "OK, look at what?"

"Stately homes. I've got some clues. Kent said the plane wasn't in the air an hour – he managed to look at his watch before they blindfolded us –"

"Who?"

"Tell you later… he looked again when we took them off, and it was an hour and twenty minutes later, right? He says we were in the cars for about ten minutes each, and I guess I'd agree. I remember the car rides… can't say the same for the plane. But that makes our stately home no more than an hour or so's flying distance away, or less if they flew in a circle to confuse us. It has an airfield fairly near, -"

"What sort of size?"

"Our aircraft was a twin engine turbo prop, seats for at least five, that's all I can tell you."

"OK, that rules out little private grass strips. What else?"

"An English butler called Robert, aged about fifty, and a library with a Latin motto carved into the lintel over the fireplace. 'Aut disce aut discede'. Need me to spell it?"

Tim had already opened up a Latin quotations site, and typed rapidly. "Just tell me if that's OK?" Tony nodded, and Tim hit search. A moment later, they looked at each other in stunned surprise.

"Well I'll be –" The younger man said.

"It's _that _easy?" Tony said in amazement. "Er… that is, nicely done, Probie!"

'_Aut disce aut discede' _they read,_ 'learn or go away – a terse admonishment to students, often found at the entrance to a library or school room. Perhaps the most interesting example in the USA is carved into the single oak log mantelpiece in the library of Vantage Point House, at Hillerburg, NJ.'_

"That's where you were?"

Tony realised that Tim hadn't heard Kent's explanation, and gave him the potted version, leaving out such unimportant things as being gassed, and facing down an East Coast crime lord. As he did so, the Probie's fingers flew in a way that left the SFA breathless, and a little green with envy. He shrugged internally; this was a skill he was never going to have, he reminded himself to be grateful that someone on the team did. Not hat he'd let the Probie know… oh, he just did…

"There, now… Tony? Tony, you OK?"

"Yeah… sorry… what?"

"You just spaced out for a second. Look at this…"

"Robert Wilson Joyce," Tony read, as a face he recognised well looked politely back at him from the screen. "Age fifty-one. British. Trained in the Netherlands…yada yada… current position butler of Senator William Warner, of –"

"Vantage Point House, Hillerburg, NJ," Tim joined him. "So, Sablea was staying there, went to all that trouble to stop you from knowing where you were and who owned the place, and two minutes after you arrive back…" They both burst into laughter, and everyone else, hearing them, turned in time to see the astonishing sight of the Troublemint Twins high-fiving.

Gibbs walked over and wiped the grin from Tony's face. If it had even tried to come back, it would have been frightened off again by the sight of Abby standing behind his shoulder. "So, you were going to tell me about the gas _when_, exactly?"

"Gas?" McGee glared at him.

"Didn't need to, Boss… I knew Fuller would." He spoke his friend from the DEA's surname like it was a naughty word, and glared. Kent smiled, unruffled. "Don't you want to know what Technowunderkind just found out?"

It took a few minutes before everybody was up to date with everything. Alex Hahn left to bring the DEA team up to date, leaving Blossom with Kent. Tony thought he'd successfully diverted Gibbs' attention when he said, "Well, I guess we need to have a word with Stork, then. You comin'?"

"Sure, Boss…" Tony began to get up, trying to look as if it wasn't any effort at all.

Gibbs huffed. "I need coffee," he muttered under his breath. "I was asking Agent Fuller," he said severely. "You, go and see Ducky. Abby, see that he does."

They all moved off in their various directions, McGee thinking that fresh air and a trip to the Coffee shop wouldn't come amiss; but as he headed towards the elevator, his name was called urgently.

"McGee!" No embellishment; sure sign Tony was tired, but then so was he, so were they all.

"Yeah, Tony, I'll bring you some tea."

"I _know_ you will, Probissimus. I was thinking… Warner… wasn't that the name… you said just now you talked to Fehr's friend…"

Ziva was closest to a computer; she tapped away, and said, "Senator Warner has three children. The youngest is Benjamin, a student at George Washington University."

They all looked at each other.

"Coincidence," McGee said. "A powerful Senator plays host to an infamous drug dealing criminal. The Senator's son just happens to know someone who dies from bad drugs. You don't believe in coincidences, Boss."

"Do _you_, McGee?"

"Not this time, Boss."

"I will begin to gather information on Senator Warner," Ziva said and sat down.

"Only the public domain stuff, Ziver," Gibbs said warningly. "We'll get McGee to do the sensitive stuff when he gets back. Don't want him to know we're looking at him. Nice spot, DiNozzo." Tony nodded, too busy yawning to answer.

"Well," Ziva said thoughtfully, "a Senator, no less. That's a very big target."

Abby and Tony paused on their way to the autopsy lift. "Doesn't matter how big, Ziva. When the Silver Haired Fox gets his teeth into them, they're all the same." For Abby, there was never any doubt.

"So, the bigger they are, the harder they fall,"Ziva mused.

"Er, Ziva, it's 'the higher they go'…" Tony began, then he stopped , and grinned. "No, actually, I like your version better."

**AN: I'm getting lazy… I've only done one read-through. Blame the toof.**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: What a wonderful device the flashback is… when your story suddenly does a complete swerve, and you get anxious about credibility, and contrivance…**

**The first is vital, and the second something I try desperately to avoid. But upon my own head be it, I'm the one who let the tale take over. See what you think.**

**TC, I've used your phrases, they were **_**so**_** worth purloining!**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 7

Ben Warner drove back to George Washington University feeling alternately pleased and furious. When he'd said he was returning to DC well before the beginning of the new term, his father had accepted happily his explanation that he wanted to get plenty of practice on the ice, ready for the new hockey league season. His father had been proud that he'd shown such commitment. Poor old Dad, so easy to hoodwink…The fed hadn't been so easy to manipulate.

Damn John for leaving that message on his cell phone! When the agent investigating the case had begun to question him, there'd been a distinct hint of suspicion… did they think he'd stolen the boots? To pay for drugs, maybe? So near, and yet so far. He let out a sharp bark of derisive laughter as he parked his car. He was pretty sure that volunteering to go to NCSI or whatever they were to give a statement had stopped them from looking any harder at him, and he was quite certain that Special Agent McGraw, or whoever he was, had believed him in the end, but it had been impossible to get any information out of him, and he'd hoped to learn at least something useful.

Acting as the distraught friend, it was easy to elicit sympathy from the agent, who didn't seem that much older than he was, but earnestly asking "Have you any idea who did this?" didn't get an answer to go with the condolences. "I've no idea where he got the drugs from, have you?" got exactly the same reply.

'_We're still making enquiries,'_ he parroted viciously as he made his way up the stairs to his campus apartment, happy as always that the son of a Senator didn't have to make do with one room like the oi-polloi.

Damn John. Why'd he kept his freaking boots? He didn't even know you could look at a phone and see the messages it had sent. If he'd given them back instead of making a silly joke, John wouldn't have left that message, or come to his apartment unannounced. And he wouldn't have ended up having to kill his friend.

"_What's got into you? You've been antsy ever since you arrived. I've given you your boots back, and I've said I'm sorry…"_

"_It's none of my business…"_

"_What isn't?"_

_John sighed. "That guy who was here… I was outside your door with my hand raised to knock… and I heard what he said."_

"_Hey, man, I was only buying a bit of coke…"_

"_No, Ben, you weren't. You're supplying pushers. That makes you a__** dealer**__. That's why you've come back to DC early. I heard."_

"_Man…"_

"_Hey, I'm not going to rat on you… I use occasionally…I mean, I got two pals going off to Eye-raq tomorrow… I was going to go after some speedball for a farewell party… But it's dangerous, Ben. You'll get in with some really dodgy people… look, I don't want to know who, or what – but promise me you'll think about getting out."_

_Had he really got off that easily? He'd lain awake all night thinking about it, and by morning he'd known he couldn't take the chance. His passionately anti-drugs father mustn't find out, and he certainly didn't want the man who was his guide on his way to wealth and power such as Pa couldn't imagine, to know he'd been careless. His mentor acted like a kindly old uncle, and Ben went along with that, but the truth was that deep inside he was terrified of him._

_Everyone had heard about the dodgy speedballs… people were buying them from that idiot Manders, and recutting them to a safe level, two for the price of one; the only one who __**didn't**__ know that was Manders. Ben Warner went to find him…_

"_Hey, Johnny, when did you say you're meeting your pals?"_

_John closed his locker and picked up his bag. "This afternoon, why?"_

_Ben glanced round. "Here… out of my private supply. To say thanks for not ratting me out."_

"_Aw, thanks, Ben! But you know I wouldn't do that… you're my friend…"_

_Ben winked. "Enjoy…" he said, and watched his friend leave the locker room. Sad… but now all he had to do was listen for the news._

The plan had worked, and he refused to feel guilty about it. If people were fool enough to take drugs, that was up to them. He never did. So, that had been one danger averted, but now, he had to concentrate on the other. Chaz Tressel was a far greater liability.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

There was nothing they could do now until they talked to Director Shepard, and they were all dropping on their feet. They sent Kent home to his family and sleep; they planned to sleep themselves at their desks, as best they could until the Director arrived at 7am.

"Give your eyes a rest, McGee…" It had come out with the Boss's usual bark, but the concern had been genuine. At half past five Gibbs, the chronic insomniac got up from behind his desk, and peered over the top of Tim's, to see the young agent, organised as he'd have expected, lying on his roll-out mat, his jacket folded neatly for a pillow. He was spark out, at least looking as if he were getting some benefit from the rest, although the bruising round his eyes reminded the senior agent, if he was ever likely to forget, just what the young man had been through.

Ziva seemed to sleep the same way she did everything else, seriously and with intent. Even her deep breathing seemed purposeful. It was necessary that her body rested, but it was also necessary to be ready for any eventuality, so she lay in the recovery position, one knee bent, ready to spring up, with her Sig, in its holster, on the floor near her hand.

DiNozzo hadn't opted for the floor; he sat in his chair with his head on his left arm, crooked on his desk. His right arm was hugged protectively into his midriff, his long legs stuck out at awkward angles, and his whole body moved restlessly from time to time. The few occasions that Gibbs had seen his SFA sleeping, it had always been this way. Cops never slept easy, and Gibbs gut tightened involuntarily in sympathy. He didn't venture to imagine DiNozzo's dreams; he had a whole library of his own to entertain him.

He went for a shower, a shave and a change of clothes, then headed out for coffee. Starbucks closed late and opened early; the manager held the view that the Navy Yard was entirely staffed by insomniacs, and catering to them made very good sense. The grumpy silver haired regular approaching now almost single handedly kept him in business. He set up the usual order.

Returning with a tray of five cups, one each for his agents and two for him, he saw that DiNozzo was missing. He put the cups down on the desks, and waited a few minutes; the smell of coffee and his movements around the bullpen being sufficient to begin rousing Tim and Ziva, but not enough to bring Tony back. Gibbs didn't know whether he ought to be anxious or not, he was well aware that he had a mother hen trait in his nature, but he went off in search anyway.

DiNozzo wasn't in the shower, where he'd rather expected to find him; or in the locker room, but when he walked into the mens' room, he was brought up short by the sight of a stark naked butt as Tony stepped awkwardly into a clean pair of boxers. Gibbs didn't waste time looking at the ass, he was looking at the black bruising on the back of his SFA's muscular shoulders, and checking on the dressing. It was dry, and clean enough, although a bit old and tired looking. And of course it explained why the fastidious Italian hadn't been in the shower.

Tony was sleepy but unruffled, as he hitched his pants up and turned round. "Hi, Boss," he said with a bleary smile. "Ducky brought me a clean shirt to leave hospital in, but some blood ran down my back into the waistband of my trousers, and my pants – and I didn't realise. Had to put them back on," his nose wrinkled; "and spend all day with dried blood on me. I kept on smelling it." He picked up the bloodstained boxers and dropped them in the trash can, then inspected his suit.

"This'll have to go to Abby before it goes to the dry cleaner," he sighed. "And I couldn't even take a shower." He moved to pick up his clean jeans and the soft hoodie he'd found to go with them, but Gibbs had seen how stiffly he'd bent to retrieve the ruined pants, and moved first.

"Wait," he said quietly, and something in his tone made the SFA comply without question. Poppa Gibbs. He would never admit it, but there where times when his soul ached for this sort of kindness, however roughly given. He didn't know why the Boss would care about his welfare, but the fact was he did, and for someone who'd fended for himself all his life, that was… well, that was just huge.

Gibbs picked up the clean garments, and Tony's shoes, and put them on the vanity shelf. He turned his agent gently round by his upper arms, and winced as he looked at the bruising close up. Tony felt the dressing being peeled back carefully, and then off altogether.

"It's dry enough," Gibbs reassured him. "Turn round again." He lifted the much smaller dressing from high on DiNozzo's chest, where the surgeon had gone in to remove the bullet from the front. It was a small wound, with only three stitches. "That's neat," he said in some surprise.

"A woman's touch, Boss," Tony said with a small smile. "Dr. Brand, remember?" Gibbs did remember; somewhere it had registered with him that the trauma surgeon was a redhead… He tugged the dressing all the way off, and it joined the other one and the discarded pants in the trash.

"Er, Boss…"

Gibbs picked up Tony's clean clothes and handed them to him. "Go take that shower. I'll take your suit to Abby. I'll pick up some dressings from Autopsy."

"You keeping an eye on the Probie too, Boss? ...Course you are."

"Get gone, DiNozzo."

"Thank you, nurse," Tony said, recalling Tim's words from the previous day, and turned to leave, waiting for the headslap. It was very light. If any early bird saw Special Agent DiNozzo clad in nothing but his shorts, carrying his clothes and wandering down the corridor to the showers, nobody actually remarked on it.

Gibbs arrived back at the bull-pen to find McGee on the phone. He waited impatiently until the young agent had finished, and said, "Don't you _want _to take a break? Grab a change of clothes?"

Tim just smiled. "First things first, Boss. I just ordered breakfast."

"Hah. Nice work, McGee."

Ziva reappeared in fresh clothes, smelling of vanilla, and five minutes later Tony arrived, dressed except for the hoodie, which was draped round his shoulders, and carrying breakfast. "Don't know why Adie called me," he said cheerfully. Everyone else knew; the guard at the entrance knew DiNozzo was the one to grumble the most vociferously if he wasn't fed.

As they ate, Gibbs renewed the dressings on Tony's shoulder. Gibbs was aware that Ziva was covertly giving Tony's muscles the once-over. Tim knew it too; the only one who didn't notice, oddly enough, was Tony. Fresh, fed and watered, they were ready for another day; or days, as the SFA said airily. Gibbs sighed to himself. He could only suspect why it was that his Senior Agent could come out of exhausted, nightmare infested sleep, back to cheery goofiness just because of one very small act of kindness. And he still thought that Gibbs couldn't see it…

Jenny Shepard arrived, forewarned, as Tim was pulling up as much information as he could on the Warner family; Kent arrived shortly afterwards, with Blossom. By now nobody even wondered if there was a no dogs rule. She was part of the team. They all trooped up to the Director's office.

"So," Shepard said thoughtfully. "The story so far… every time we think we're done with this, something else crops up… and this time there's Oscar Sablea and a well respected Senator."

"It's because of both of those factors that we don't want Warner to get any inkling that we're interested in him," Gibbs said. "We have the guy who actually killed the three victims, but we're quite sure he's not the whole picture, and we've not even interviewed him yet!"

"This time we want to cut the head off, not the tentacles;" Fuller agreed. "We also have to try to find Tressel before Sablea does…"

"And his nine kilos of pure cocaine," Jenny pointed out. "I understand what you're saying; the fact that he's a petty dirtbag doesn't mean we can stand by and let him be killed since we know he's a target… but I have to say, if it's a choice between finding him and alerting the bad guys that we know something, and leaving him in the wind… he's on his own."

"It shouldn't come to that," Tony said. "Sablea _knows_ we're after the guy, and Agent Fuller and I both told him we weren't going to back off." He glanced over at Kent, who winced.

"Hairy moment," he said with feeling. "Didn't _think_ he was going to kill us… wasn't certain though. But I am pretty sure he'd like us dead now, just for answering him back."

"What's he like?" Tim asked curiously.

"Benevolently malevolent," Tony told him. "Don't think my hackles have ever risen quite so much." He paused, and huffed. "I would _seriously_ like to take him down," he said without humour. "The world's a more dangerous place with him loose in it."

Tim looked at him thoughtfully, remembering their night at the hands of Dale Nickless, and thinking that this man was a hundred times worse. "I've already started hunting," he said calmly. "And I won't get caught. If there's a way to link the Starling Stash to Sablea and the Senator, I'll find it."

Tony threw the younger man a delighted grin, mouthing the phrase back to him, his mood lifted. "Well," Tim said matter-of-factly, "Nobody can live at that level without leaving _some _sort of trail, no matter how they bury it."

"I've brought over everything we've got on the heroin that Stork used to make his speedballs," Kent said. "We reckon we already know who Manders got it from, although we need to confirm that. I'd like to sit in on the interrogation, Gibbs –"

"How about you do it?"

As the two senior agents discussed tactics, Tony murmured, "Link the _Starling Stash _to _Sablea _ and the _Senator_… I _like_ it, McAlliterator… you should be a writer!"

He was unprepared for the fleeting look of… what? Panic? Guilt? Nah… he was imagining it. "Writer? Me? You think so?" The Probie laughed and shrugged it off. "It was just a phrase, Tony."

"Well… it was impressive," the SFA said, and let the matter go.

Damn… fine for now, Tim thought. But there's no way that DiNozzo won't remember that some time. Must be more careful in future…

Gibbs' phone buzzed. Abby. She hadn't been there when he'd dropped off DiNozzo's suit; but she'd probably been up all night somewhere anyway. Her excited voice could be heard by everyone, although they couldn't make out her words.

"Do we need to come down, Abs?"

"No… but you need to know this…"

Gibbs listened, said "Nice work, Abs," and hung up. "Abby found a couple of hairs on Tressel's bedding," he told them. "She left some tests running overnight – the hairs are from two different people, both male. She recovered DNA, from the hairs, and from semen from the same two individuals. One's Tressel, the hair sample says he's been using Heroin and coke during the past month. Starling vintage present. The other's a non-user, DNA not on record."

Ziva frowned. "That is surely unusual. Was Tressel trying unsuccessfully to hook someone else? Or was he being manipulated through the use of his drug of choice?"

"I'll go back to his place with a warrant, Boss," Tony said.

"Don't go alone, DiNozzo. Take Ziva."

"On it, Boss."

"Fuller and I'll go and talk to Stork," Gibbs said, and didn't wait for a reply before striding from the room with Kent.

"Stay with McGee, girl." Blossom trotted obligingly back to Tim.

"I'll go back and see what else I can find about Senator Warner."

"What have you found so far, Agent McGee?"

"Nothing but good, Director. He's a gentleman of the old school, honest, respected, very well liked. Admired for his stand against bribery in politics, lends his name, finances and personal help to charities fighting against drug abuse. Has one married daughter and dotes on his two grandchildren. Two sons, one an environmental scientist, the other at GWU. Nobody has a bad word to say about him, the press love him. He even plays Santa at childrens' charity parties. So far, he's blameless, virtuous, and even noble."

Jenny nodded thoughtfully. "So, that leaves me to decide what I'm going to tell SecNav about why we're investigating a saint."

Tim looked her straight in the eye. "Ma'am," he said bravely, "He's not going to know he's being investigated. Easiest thing to tell the Secretary is… nothing."

The Probie and the Director shared a wicked smile.

**AN: You know how I worry about my brain… I've been writing 'Vance' all through this chapter, and only just realised, Season 3….. oh, dear me.**

**Di, hope you liked your treat.**


	8. Chapter 8

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 8

The Stork had been treated well enough; kept at the nearest Metro precinct overnight, showered and given a good breakfast; but hunched, trembling in the chair in the interrogation room, wearing an orange jumpsuit that was too short in the arms and legs, it was clear he'd have preferred some other sort of refreshment. Gibbs might have felt sorry for him, but for two dead marines and a college kid. He stood, leaning against the wall by the door, while Kent rocked his chair back, and then dropped the two front legs back on the floor.

It wasn't a loud bang, but Hosea Manders jumped nevertheless. He realised that he'd somehow managed to hop out of the fire and back into the frying pan, and this man opposite him had had a lot to do with it; he and the other guy who'd been there yesterday… he couldn't understand why they'd been prepared to stick their necks out for him… but then, there were a lot of things he didn't understand. He was in the box for three murders… and he couldn't even remember the three guys…

"You still insist you didn't know the cocaine was pure?" Kent asked with a disbelieving raised eyebrow. He knew that Stork spoke the truth, but the more scorn he poured, the more information he got.

"This guy Chaz… used to buy coke from _me…_ comes to me and he's got a kilo. Won't say where he got it from… says it's good quality, only a quarter cut, good for speedballs. He knows I do speedballs… he needs money fast, so he lets me have it real cheap."

"He tell you what he needed the money for?"

"No… but he don't dress so well, and he don't drive a fancy car… and I never know him deal before… maybe he steals a lot, needs to get out of town… man, he don't look so good either… maybe he's scared… or maybe he's ill… he don't tell me nothing. I give him the money, I never see him again. I make the balls, I sell them, I make plenty money, get myself a car…" He shuddered and twitched slightly; Kent pushed a bottle of water across the table to him, but he just looked at it.

"You never think to check the stuff out? You could have made a hell of a lot more money if you'd cut it, and not killed three kids. You do realise, the only reason there aren't more deaths at your door is that we got the word out, and people started re-cutting the stuff? Oh, yeah, that and Sablea snatched you before you could sell the rest of them?"

The sad eyed black man writhed in his seat. "Oh, man… Chaz said it was good… never meant to kill no-one…"

"Then this guy comes to see you yesterday, buys three balls…" He pushed the autopsy photograph of John Fehr across the table.

"Oh, man…." Stork said again, twisting in anguish. "I don't know him… you got a live photo of him? Nobody like that came by me yesterday…"

Without comment, Fuller spread the photo from Fehr's student ID, and formal photos of the two young marines on the table, but still Manders shook his head. "I ain't forgetting," he said miserably, "maybe you and the other guy could have walked out of that place without me yesterday… maybe now I'd be dead… I'm not tellin' you no lies… I never seen any of those guys, not yesterday or any time."

Both of the other men in the room believed him. Gibbs sighed to himself. Probably brought up in poverty, not wonderfully educated, not dumb, but not nearly worldly wise enough for what he had probably drifted into; the eternal patsy, probably made use of at every stage of his life… and on the hook for three murders he didn't commit. He'd answer to lesser charges if they could find the real killer. If they did… was there any chance? For the guy to sort his life out? He pushed himself off the wall and came to sit by Kent. The Stork looked at him fearfully.

"Well, let's say we believe that, Mr. Manders," he said carefully. "Who _did_ you sell to yesterday?"

"Only one guy… before that old guy's goons snatched me. He bought three."

"Name?"

"I don't know. People don't tell me their names. He looked at my car, and he smiled… but it weren't no nice smile, it was sort of hard, and cold. I asked him if he liked my car, and he just laughed. Real mean."

"What did he look like?"

"Young, brown hair… not too tall, but muscles… I dunno… I think…"

"What do you think, Mr. Manders?"

"I dunno… got the impression… could be… clothes too good to be rent boy… but that sort of look, ya know?"

"So you're saying he might have been gay?"

Stork looked at his knees. "Yeah… I guess…"

The other two men looked at each other; they had no idea yet whether that would be significant, but it was information gathered.

Kent switched the line of questioning. "Where did you get your car from, Stork?"

The prisoner's eyes slid away, and a look that might have been panic crossed his face.

"A – a friend."

"Another dealer? Come on, we found the compartment… it had to be a dealer's car."

"Yeah… the guy I get my smack from… got it me from a friend of his. Was letting it go cheap. I… dunno his name."

"Who do you get your heroin from?"

"I… don't say that."

"OK, you're scared to. I can understand that. But you have to understand, we already know a lot more than you might think." Kent laid a list of names out on the table. "Point him out. And I'll know if you're not telling me the truth."

There were only three genuine names on the list, and Stork pointed to the bottom one of the three.

"Do you know who he gets it from?"

Now the Stork was really fearful. "I… don't know. I don't ask."

Gibbs spoke again. "You do know, Hosea. Just like you know the name of the person who had the car before you. Now, if you don't want to find yourself doing life for three murders you didn't commit –"

The Stork looked at them, his sad eyes wide. His jaw dropped, but he said nothing.

Gibbs went on relentlessly. "You want us to be able to prove you didn't kill those guys… you tell us everything you know about everything. And just be grateful that no-one died from the balls you _did_ sell."

The Stork gave up. "I got my car from Dennis Brackett… he's one of Williamson's men. Williamson's who they all get their smack from round here. He's new, no-one ever heard of him until a few months ago… one scary dude, they all say. No-one's ever seen him. Used to be a guy called Pascoe, he went to jail… now there's Nickless, and they say Williamson's closing in on his scene… but no-one knows who he is."

Clearly, news about Nickless hadn't got that far down the chain yet… this Williamson was someone they'd need to get to know PDQ, Kent thought.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

"Oh, hey…" Tressel's landlord said offhandedly, through a mouthful of gum, "Ya didn't need a warrant… I've kept the place locked since last time you were here. I jus' wanna know if he's comin' back… he's paid till the end of next month, _then_ I'll need to think about lettin."

"The warrant is to protect both ourselves and you, Mr. Dale," Ziva explained. "This way he cannot complain that you let us in."

Tony held an arm out warningly, as they came to the top of the stairs. "You said you kept the place locked?" he whispered.

The landlord nodded, wide eyed at the sight of the jemmied door at the far end of the passage.

"Is there a fire escape?"

"No… there's an escape ladder in a cabinet under the window." Ziva pointed to the door of the apartment opposite, and the landlord understood. "Eileen's at work."

"Go downstairs," Ziva whispered. "Lock yourself in your apartment, and call the police." The man didn't make a fuss, but went down the stairs quietly.

The two agents drew their guns and moved quietly down the passage. Tony stepped quickly to the far side of the door and peered in through the gap. "I see two," he mouthed. "Could be more." Ziva nodded. She'd scan left and down, he'd scan right and up; they could always hope that the intruders weren't armed. Sure. Tony nodded and kicked the door.

"Federal agents – freeze!"

The two men trashing Chaz Tressel's apartment did, but only for a moment. Ziva saw too late that the one going through the kitchen cupboards had a jar of scouring powder in his hands. The top was off; he was about to empty it onto the work top – instead he threw it in Ziva's face. She threw up the hand that wasn't holding her gun, and managed to stop most of it from going into her left eye, but her right wasn't so lucky. She couldn't suppress a cry of pain, and screwed her eyes up, but she never lost track of where her opponent was.

The intruder thought he had a clear run to the door, but he underestimated a Mossad officer, even one who could hardly see. Tony was to her left, she knew, from the scuffling sounds he was occupied; but that way would be blocked… her assailant would go right. The blurred vision of her left eye saw the shadow, and she launched herself, feet first. It wasn't a good connect; if she'd got it right, she knew exactly the sort of sound her opponent would have made, considering where she was aiming, but she knew she'd brought him to his knees at least.

He jumped up, yelled and charged her, while she stayed down. She couldn't see enough to be of much help, but thought he was most likely going for her throat. She swept her arms across in front of her, and found his wrist exactly where she hoped it would be. She gripped it with both hands, dropped down onto her back, and used his own momentum to throw him over her head. Swearing in Hebrew without ever repeating herself, she threw herself on him, found where the small of his back was, and ground her knee in. Digging her thumb into the pressure point on the back of the hand she was still hanging onto made him squeal; moments later he was cuffed, and she was sitting on him, gasping with pain, and clutching at her jacket to stop herself from rubbing her eyes.

The other guy had charged at Tony without hesitation, jamming the corner of the DVD case he was holding unerringly into the SFA's injured shoulder. The agent hissed in pain, as the bruises were sent into instant throbbing overdrive, but to his attacker's surprise, he laughed. "I wasn't _that_ badly hurt," he said nastily. "You obviously didn't look closely enough yesterday." He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the DVD, and twisted the man's arm up his back, hard enough to make him scream. He'd heard his partner's cry of pain and he wasn't going to waste time. Kicking the man's feet from under him, he dragged him across and cuffed him to the radiator, and didn't spare him a second thought.

"Zi…." She would have blinked if she could, he'd never taken liberties with her name before. "You can get off him…" Tony dragged the man over to the radiator and re-cuffed him at the other end from his colleague, then ran back to Ziva. She was trying to grope her way to the bathroom, but had no idea which door to try. "Right direction," he said encouragingly. "C'me on," he steered her to the shower, and sat her on the floor. "Hey, well done for not rubbing. That takes some will power…"

"Aaah… I know that will only make it worse, Tony," she said thickly, as he leaned her head back and to one side. Working as quickly as he could, he lifted the shower head out of its socket, set it on low pressure and began to rinse her face. She was a sensible patient, as he would have expected of her, opening her eyes as soon as she could bear to, and he was careful not to let the jet go directly onto them.

"How's that feel?"

"Much better, Tony. Thank you."

"You up to holding it yourself for a minute? While I get you some proper help?"

"I will be fine, Tony. I do not need paramedics –"

She felt a finger on her lips, and a voice that wouldn't be argued with said very softly, "Yes, you do."

The SFA got up and went back into the sitting room/kitchen. He looked at the man he'd just cuffed. "If you've damaged her sight," he said just as softly, "you'll regret it." He phoned for an ambulance, as the two men watched. Snapping his phone shut, he looked at them bleakly. "I did have a nice evening, thank you," he said to the one he'd fought, and enjoyed the shock on his face. "Come on," he said derisively, "how else would you know to go for my shoulder?" He turned around so the man couldn't see him rubbing it carefully, or the small spots of blood on his hoodie, and headed back to his partner, throwing over his shoulder, "Sablea's going to be _so_ impressed with your performance." Let them stew on that for a bit.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Ziva lay on Tim's roll-out mat behind her desk, with the pack that the paramedics had given her over her eyes. She had lain like that on the sofa in Tressel's flat, feeling mulish at the way DiNozzo flatly refused to let her do anything as he carefully searched the apartment, especially as she knew he'd sponged the blood from the front of his hoodie, and cadged another dressing from the EMTs. "Well, sweetcheeks," he said reprovingly, "you flatly refused to go to hospital, so now I'm returning the compliment. Lie down, rest, and SHUSH!"

She'd been even more mortified when she'd received no support from Gibbs. "DiNozzo told me you took one down even though you couldn't see him. Ya did good. We don't expect you to go over evidence when you can't see it though. Do as you're told."

So she lay there, fulminating to herself, until she finally began to accept that just because they were men, and just because they agreed about something, didn't make them wrong. She was aware of a disturbance in the air, although the person approached quietly. She felt her head being lifted, and something soft pushed underneath it.

"Abby sent you a pillow, and lots of love," Tony said. "Don't move for an hour." He laid her head down again, just as gently as he'd lifted it, and then he was gone, leaving her relieved that she hadn't ratted him out to Gibbs.

She lay quietly, listening to the senior agents updating them on what Stork had told them, and Tony said "Ah!" in a satisfied voice when Gibbs mentioned that Tressel had wanted money fast.

"Ah?" Gibbs questioned.

"Yeah, Boss. Our lovely friends said they'd been sent to find clues as to where Tressel had gone. I only found one thing of interest, although it may give some sort of indirect clue…" He held out a printout from a web-site, and Gibbs peered at it.

"Ziagen…Sustiva… Intellence…"

"Hell," Kent said, his face twisting with something like sympathy. "No wonder he needed money… that sort of drug's expensive."

"They're antiretrovirals, Boss," Tony explained. "He's HIV positive."

Gibbs frowned. "Those sheets Abby tested… there was semen… no condom… Looks like our guy wasn't too careful about not passing it on…"

Kent felt the half-sympathy dissolve. "We're looking for him to get those drugs. Sablea's looking for him to make an example. Any number of other people might just be looking for him for revenge…"

**AN: Sorry the story hasn't moved on much… it's just growing again…**


	9. Chapter 9

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 9

Senator William Warner stood and looked at himself in the long cheval mirror in his bedroom. It was a good idea to stand there in your underwear, he thought, and remind yourself that the trappings of wealth and influence were just that, very nice indeed, but… trappings. He knew that the word came originally from the mediaeval world of chivalry, and horses, but he often mused on a dangerous modern meaning of his own. How easy it was to become trapped in the business of keeping up outward appearances. He sighed, and reached for the comfortable sweats that Robert had laid out for him while he'd been in the shower, and thanked heaven for being able to ditch, as his children would have said, the suit.

He'd arrived back from the emergency budget meeting he'd been called to chair two days ago, to find that his house guest and friend Oscar, told to stay as long as he liked and complete the few days of relaxation he'd been invited down to enjoy, had nevertheless left late last night. A fulsome letter of thanks, presented to the Senator by Robert, had explained that he too had an emergency to deal with in one of his businesses, and inviting him to visit him, perhaps when the weather turned cold in the Fall, at his villa in Lanzarote.

When he'd asked if Oscar had enjoyed his visit, the butler's reply had been affirmative and polite, but something made the Senator frown to himself as he recalled it. Robert was the perfect head of the household; managing everything with quiet, urbane efficiency; William would have preferred him to take some title that showed how he appreciated that, but that had been refused politely.

"I was trained at the best school in the World, Sir, and a butler is what I am," Robert had said at the time. _Well, _William Warner thought, _I have never before seen evasion or anxiety on my splendid butler's face… I'll pick my moment, and see if I can find out what Oscar did to upset him._

Right now, he had other things on his mind as well; when he'd first become a Senator, having been a conscientious and well intentioned local politician for many years, he'd seen only the honour of serving his country at a high level. He had the intelligence, he knew, the breadth of vision and the financial backing to do the job well; he'd been excited. He'd expected a soupcon of corruption, but been unprepared for the level he'd encountered… people in politics wishing to advance their own power; people outside of politics wishing to have the backing of powerful figures… grubby fingers in dubious pies, and everything in between. He usually came away from DC these days with a heavier heart than the one he'd taken, and this time was no exception.

He shrugged into the sweats, and stood by the mirror again. Did he still look like a Senator? He was almost six feet tall, enough to be imposing; with a face with a strong jaw but more laugh lines than frowns, and certainly not so many as to make him appear older than he was. The mid-brown hair, greying at the temples, was cut slightly on the long side; it was a vanity, he knew, but since he wasn't losing it on top, like some of his friends on the Hill, he allowed himself to be vain.

It was a wonder his hair _wasn't _falling out; he thought, if it wasn't politics, it was kids… He sat down on the edge of his bed, the single bed in the ordinary room that he'd moved himself into after Hannie died; _"Oh, gal, how I __**wish**__ I had you to talk to…"_ he realised he'd spoken out loud. He got up, and went quietly downstairs and out into the garden. He found himself wandering over to a double swing seat where he and Hannah had always enjoyed sitting.

"It's Ben, honey," he began hesitantly. "I tried to catch him while I was in DC, but he wasn't at home, and he wasn't at the ice rink… one time someone else… another man… answered his phone, said he was waiting for him at his apartment, said he'd get him to call me back. He never did. You know… when I first suspected he was gay, I thought what I'd expect people in public life to think… it's the trappings again, Hannie, you used to warn me. What will people _think?_ How will it look? Didn't take me long to work out that was stupid… you always made me take the wider view… But, Hannie, what have I ever done to make him think he can't tell me? Or anything else about his life, for that matter? Gal, d'you think maybe I gave him the impression I was ashamed of him? Have I ever made him think that?"

He groaned, and kicked the ground a little, and set the seat swinging gently; the bough of the oak tree creaked. "He doesn't give anything away about anything… his eyes are empty when he talks to me. I don't know what I've done, sweetheart… I've seen him more animated in a day with Oscar when he's here, than he is in a month with me. And what do you know, here we are talking about Oscar again. He's such a nice guy… well educated… I can have a conversation with him on any subject… took to him right away. When people told me he had some dodgy business dealings, I flew to his defence… I believed what my friend told me."

He could almost hear his wife's calm voice in the rustling of the oak leaves. "Nope, never did any checking, honey, I stood by my own judgement. Seems like you'd have looked at it a little differently… always one to protect your chicks. No, you _wouldn't _have liked to see Ben under his wing… reckon you'd have been right." He looked up, to see Robert coming across the grass carrying a pitcher of something cold and pleasant looking. William was glad to see that his redoubtable major-domo had allowed himself to work in shirt-sleeves on this warm day.

"I thought you might like a cold drink, Sir, although it's quite shady here." He set the tray with the jug and glass down on the ground. "Shall I pour?"

William looked him in the eye. "You never will bring two glasses, will you?"

The very faintest hint of a smile crossed the butler's face, and the Senator thought he was going to get the 'I was taught by…' speech again, but Robert simply said, "It wouldn't be appropriate, Sir." He hesitated.

"What's on your mind, Robert? Come on, I could see something was up as soon as I arrived home."

The butler's face was distressed. "Sir… it really isn't my place…"

William stood up. "Bring the tray," he said calmly, since he knew there was no way that Robert would allow _him_ to carry it, "and let's sit on the terrace." There was a table there with several chairs, and he thought he might be able to persuade the worried man to sit with him there. "Don't give me any 'it wouldn't be appropriate', go and get yourself a glass, come and sit down, and tell me what's on your mind."

It worked; a few minutes later, Senator Warner had the whole story. "I told myself that it _isn't_ my place to interfere, Sir… but they neither came nor left of their own free will, guns were drawn as I have said, and although I wasn't in the room the whole time, I was afraid of what was happening. I was afraid for the black man, Mr. Sablea treated him as less than human, and referred to him as a 'present'. He gave me a large gratuity when he left afterwards, which I understood was to keep my silence… I have no wish for it…"

The Senator nodded slowly. "Thank you, Robert. I'm grateful for your wisdom, and I'm truly sorry you had to go through that. Of course I would want to know what my house was being used for, by my so-called friend. As to the money… take advantage of the windfall, unless it feels too tainted to you, in which case, give it to charity." He thought for a moment. "Were any names mentioned?"

"Yes indeed, Sir. One man was addressed as Agent DiNozzo, so they may have been FBI, and the black man was addressed as Mr. Manders. Somebody called Nichols, perhaps, was spoken of, and also 'Chaz', if I have that right. I understood when they left that they would not be harmed, but Agent DiNozzo already seemed to have been hurt."

"But he and his colleague stood up to Oscar and two henchmen with guns. For the sake of Mr. Manders, not themselves. You would put them among the good guys, then."

"Yes, Sir. I hesitate to say it, but I feel that it was possibly my presence there that stopped Mr. Sablea from having them shot."

"I'm profoundly relieved. I'm also profoundly relieved that you came to no harm."

Once again, the very ghost of a smile; the best training school in the world would never have approved. "I think perhaps, Sir, that for you to have arrived home, found your butler dead among other bodies, and your guest fled from the scene would have been difficult even for Mr. Sablea to explain."

William chuckled, and considered for a moment. He knew that his formidable butler was far more adept than he was himself with a computer. "Robert, I'm going to go and change my clothes again… get on the net, and find out which agency Agent DiNozzo belongs to, and where he's based. It looks likely that I'm going straight back to Washington."

"Not alone, Sir."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

"We've one advantage over Sablea," Kent said thoughtfully. "Tony found the medication list, so those two stooges can't have let their boss know about it. He'll realise by now that they've been picked up, but he won't have any useful information."

"Whereas we, or rather _you_," Tony added, "know all the places, legal and otherwise, that you can get these drugs."

Gibbs said, "We don't know yet whether he had one sexual partner or many; we also don't know if they knew he was HIV. If they didn't, he's safe enough going to a legitimate clinic, and he can get treatment much more cheaply. If they've found out, that's the first place they'd look."

"Question is, does he know if they know," Tony said"

"And do they know if he knows-"

"_McGee!"_

"I'm checking, Boss," Tim said hastily, but the Troublemint Twins exchanged a sly, grinning glance that Gibbs was actually happy to see. He looked more closely at the young agent.

He looked better than he had the previous day, and the Boss was pretty sure he could spot a killer headache at a hundred yards; he'd just have to make sure, with everything else they had going on, to check him out regularly. As for DiNozzo…

Kent Fuller pulled out his phone. "Cal? Yeah, I'm still at the Navy Yard….Yes, I've got Blossom. Don't lecture me, missy… I _am_ working. No, Alex is in charge. You've all got plenty to do. Yes, I'll call if I need you. No, you're not missing anything…_ Cal!_" That seemed to stem the flow from the other end. "Thank you. I want you to…" The others stopped listening as the conversation stopped being amusing.

Blossom stopped listening as soon as she realised that her name being spoken didn't mean going out and having fun. She huffed and sat down again, and Ziva, still on her back with the soothing pad on her eyes, heard it. She called the Spaniel's name softly, and Blossom wandered over to her. Right, if she couldn't go out and run around, she could at least lie by this nice-smelling human and be fussed.

Kent snapped his phone off, and turned to Tim. "Our entire drug database is now available to you, for your terminal only, for today. You can ask for any information about anything, and if it's in there, you'll have it. But if anyone else wants to look, they have to go to your screen. Please, don't put it up on the plasma, OK?" He wrote down the information McGee needed in order to make the link. He was of the quiet opinion that the young agent could have hacked his database anyway; it was simply better to not put a friend in the position of having to.

"Ziagen, Sustiva, Intellence," McGee listed off slowly.

"Start with them, because they were the ones on his list," Kent suggested.

"I didn't find a prescription," Tony mused. "So if we're lucky, he had one and filled it somewhere." 

"Right," Kent said. "And if we're not lucky, since it takes much longer to update info on non-legal sources, we have a lot of leg-work ahead, going round the dealers."

Ziva gave an inelegant snort from her position on the floor. Gibbs looked over at her. "You OK, Ziver?"

"It seems I am learning more about the world of drug dealers every day," she said. "If they are not making money from the misery of addiction, they are making it from the misery of fear of AIDS. Such evil…" she trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

Kent said reassuringly, "You've been fighting it, Ziva. And my agency's grateful for that." The comfort was understated, but appreciated. From her prone position, Ziva nodded. It was all she'd needed. She lay, stroking Blossom's warm head, and marvelling that she'd needed anything. With Mossad, she'd been taught to have as little sympathy for the victims of drug abuse as for the traffickers, but now she felt it was not at all that simple. She wondered how she'd cope when she had to go back; it was not just her circumstances that had changed, but herself.

Tim's voice interrupted her reverie. "9th Street Clinic… prescription for Sustiva presented in the name of Chaz Tressel, day before yesterday. Not yet collected."

Tony took the number and got on the phone, as Tim hunted on. While he was occupied, Ziva took the opportunity to sit up and remove the eye pack, hoping he wouldn't notice, and that he hadn't been timing the hour anyway.

The SFA put the phone down, and reported, "The pharmacist tells me she filled the prescription at ten thirty in the morning, two days ago, and it's still there waiting. The receptionist says that the man, whose general description fits Tressel, although I'll take a photo over there later, sat waiting, then noticed another guy looking at him. They glared for a bit, then just as she was thinking she might have to call for help to break up a fight, Tressel jumped up and ran out of the place. The other guy didn't follow, he was waiting for his prescription, but he pulled his phone out straight away. They have cameras, she'll see if she can find the incident. And Ziva, it's only been twenty minutes."

Ziva got up, and walked over to Tony's desk. "So… don't you think I look better?"

He winced. "Better, yes… right, no. And if you think I'm taking you to that clinic, _think again._ Er… I was thinking McGeek might be getting a bit square eyed, Boss?"

Gibbs thought. He could see what DiNozzo was driving at; McGee had come out of hospital after concussion and disturbed vision to go straight back onto his computer, and had scarcely come off it again. But the data search was vital…

"I'll work the search," Kent said, understanding; "after all, I should know my own files… Not sure we should send the two crocks out together, but if they promise to behave –" Tony and Tim turned baleful eyes on him at the same time. They both started to speak at once, and then, as they began to head for the exit, they both stopped, and fell silent. Tony went pale, and actually staggered back a step. Kent followed the direction of his gaze, to where an agent was leading two men into the bull pen, and stiffened.

The bulkier of the two men also went stiff, as his eyes went to the large screen, where his own likeness was gazing benevolently out.

The other man murmured softly to him, "Well, it seems that Mr. Sablea didn't cover his tracks as well as he must have thought, Sir." He spotted Tony, and his face broke into an unmistakeable expression of relief. "Agent DiNozzo, I'm so glad you're alright. And your colleague…"

"Robert," DiNozzo said in surprise. "We found you… seems as if you found us. Nice place you've got there, Senator Warner."

**AN: This chapter gave me so much trouble… more action in the next one, I hope.**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Hot and muggy today, hard to concentrate. Next door's cat dropped in to see me – he hasn't moved off the futon, all four legs in the air. Black & white bliss.**

**Nat, thanks again for the kind review!**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 10

"Tony, stop looking sideways at me," McGee grumbled quietly, as he threaded the agency sedan through the DC traffic towards 9th Street. "I'm not going to speed just cuz you feel antsy."

"_Antsy_, Probocop? You can drive by the book as long as you like. I wasn't looking sideways at you… just like you weren't looking sideways at me."

"Touche. But if you want me to stop, you'll have to stop furtively rubbing your chest."

"Yes, nurse. And you'll have to stop screwing your eyes up. Are you any more fit to drive than me?"

"The sun's bright. I left my shades in my car. But my arm works better than yours. Nyah nyah." He went on before Tony could start muttering. "So, the Senator… did you believe him, or was he trying to cover his ass before someone else told us the story from a different point of view?"

"Well, see, I've got an advantage over you, Probie… what did _you _think?"

"I believe him," Tim said defiantly, wondering why he could never get a straight answer out of the SFA. "And what advant – oh, you were there."

"Right. I believe the butler…" Tony laughed and shook his head in wonder. "He was as scared as the rest of us, and he dealt with it by doing his job, the best way he knew how. He heard my remark about being likely to throw up the brandy, and he brought arrowroot biscuits… 'to settle the digestion'…"

"And that was when you decided he was a good guy?" Tim was about to scoff, when he got his straight answer.

"Yeah, McGee, it was," Tony said thoughtfully. "And if I believe him, then I believe Senator Warner. Because that butler is not the kind of guy to work for anyone who isn't as upright as a Sequoia, and just as solid."

"He's heading for big trouble, though," Tim ventured, expecting to be shot down in flames as a matter of course. "The Senator, I mean."

"Go on," was all Tony said.

The younger agent thought for a moment. He understood now why he hadn't got straight answers; he was being drawn out to think – no, not to think for himself, he could do that, but to have the confidence to _say_ what he was thinking.

"McGee? McMesmerised?"

"He's afraid for his son," Tim said sadly. "He thinks he's lost him to Oscar Sablea, and he's afraid of what he's going to find out."

Tony nodded his agreement. William Warner had only said one thing on the subject, that his son had been befriended by Oscar and seemed to look up to him; but the pain just below the surface was clear.

"He was virtually saying to us, 'Rescue my son, don't let anything bad happen to him'…" the young agent went on. "But he knows, really, that he has to let us do our job, whatever the consequences. And we've not even told him yet about Ben knowing John Fehr. Although maybe Gibbs has by now. Perhaps he wants to know more about how well they knew each other before he drops it on the Senator."

"Yeah…" Tony nodded again, his eyes far away. His hand went under his jacket to rub his chest once more, then curled up over his shoulder to rub his back, and he made no attempt to disguise it this time. He said nothing, but finally let out a sigh so deep that Tim was certain he didn't realise he'd done it. The Probie brought the car to a halt outside the 9th Street Clinic, and switched off.

"Tony?" He wished he could find a McMesmerised comment of his own. "Tony, what?"

The SFA pulled a wry face. "Always wanted a father who'd be solid for me," he said expressionlessly. "Nothing I did was ever good enough, and yes, I did try, goddam hard – never did have his approval. That stupid kid doesn't realise what he's throwing away for the sake of Oscar effing Sablea." He shook his head viciously enough to make Tim, whose own was still fragile, wince, and the DiNozzo megawatt grin appeared like a light switching on. "Come on, Probie, let's see what the ol' DiNozzo telephone charm's got us."

The receptionist's name was Beth, and having two good looking men hanging over her counter was very much to her liking. She'd already found the day and time in question, and showed them the sequence. They came round to her side of the counter and stood one on each side, looking over her shoulders.

"This is the incident… you can see, the man I thought fitted your description… that _is _him, isn't it? He gave his prescription in at the dispensary, so I didn't get his name at the time."

"Oh, yes, ma'am – " Tony threw the Probie an incredulous, eloquent look – "er, Beth. That's great. That's the man we're after. So this was two days ago?"

"Yes… Tim. Now, see, he sits down to wait…" she forwarded the picture by five minutes, "and then this other man comes in, and sits with his back to the camera, so you can't see his expression, and the picture's not brilliant…"

Tony decided to experiment, and leaned down closer to her, as if to peer at the screen. She gave him a little smile, as if she were enjoying it, but her eyes slid very quickly back to Tim. For the life of him, Tony didn't know why he stood up again, and didn't exert his dynamic personality a bit harder, blast her with the megawatts; afterwards he told himself that it was the pain that putting his weight on his right arm had set off in his chest. He left the way clear for McGee to lean down instead.

"…But I remember it. They were looking at each other; and your guy looked very tense. I could see even by his back view that the other man was as well, and then this happened."

The man with his back to the camera began to get up, but before he could move very far at all, Chaz Tressel leapt up and ran for the door. The other man took a few paces after him, then gave up. As he came back towards the seats, they could all read the disgusted expletive on his lips. They watched him pull out a cell phone, but they doubted that even Abby could have told what he was saying into it.

"That's fantastic, Beth," Tim said, and the receptionist blushed. "I'll transfer it to my lap top, and we can find him." He plugged a USB in and set up. "We have a facial recognition programme –"

"You don't have to," Beth said proudly. "I think he'd only sat down so he could look at the other man. After he'd gone, he came over to the counter and told me he was here for an appointment. Here we are…" She brought up the appointments diary on the screen, and darkened everything but the one entry. "Mr. Mel Heysham. Who he'd come to see and why, you'll have to ask him, of course, but here's his address." She wrote it fast, in a neat feminine script, turned the paper over and wrote something else on the back, and handed it to Tim with a brilliant smile. Not to be unkind, she favoured Tony with another, but he didn't feel that the wattage was the same.

"You're amazing, Beth," Tim told the young woman earnestly, retrieving the stick. "I can't thank you enough."

"My pleasure…Tim."

As they left, the young agent was reading the address and putting it into his map facility, then he put the paper in his pocket. Tony spluttered, the incredulity back on his face. McGee stopped with his hand on the car door. "What?"

"Oh, but you've led a sheltered life, Probie. You need to spend some more time around the Tonester. Are you telling me you didn't notice she wrote on the _back_ as well?"

Tim lowered himself into the car, fishing for the paper. "But what would she –Oh!"

"There, see? You'll be able to find some way to thank her enough… just don't lose that number!"

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

After Tony and Tim, sympathetically quiet, left for the clinic, and Gibbs and Ziva left to find out if Sablea's two goons knew anything useful, William Warner leaned forward, put his elbows on the Director's conference table, and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "What do I do?" he asked despairingly. "What do I do now?"

Jenny poured him another cup of coffee; the telling of his and Robert's story had taken a while. She could see that the butler was uneasy about being waited on as she brought him a cup as well, but she smiled at him, and he relaxed a little. It was Kent Fuller who broke the silence.

"Senator, we have to acquire more information before any of us know what to do. There's a lot I can't tell you about the case; it began several months ago, and it's morphed through two new existences since then. It's caused many deaths already, and some very serious injuries, but we're closing in on the truth. It gives me no pleasure at all to agree with you that you were wrong about your friend Oscar… I'll tell you this, though: we _will_ get him, and we _will_ make an end of all this."

"I don't doubt you at all," the Senator said. "I'd like you to tell me as much as you're able to about the case; I feel involved."

Kent frowned. "There _is_ something I need to tell you," he said regretfully. "It may be nothing, simply a coincidence." As he told the Senator about his son's friendship with the murdered student, John Fehr, Warner put his head back in his hands.

"I met the young man," he said painfully. "I met his _parents. _Good people… Look, it doesn't mean Ben had anything to do with those young mens' deaths!"

"No, of course not…" the DEA chief said reassuringly, and at the same time made a note to show a picture of Ben Warner to the Stork. What a horribly screwed up business this was; the decent, good man who had chosen to come to see them, had brought with him, quite unknowingly, a strong suggestion that his own child was implicated in murder.

Jenny Shephard sat down at the Senator's other side. "William," she said gently, "I don't know if the fact that you've come to us will place you and Robert in any sort of danger, but it's my feeling that you should _not_ go back to Hillerburg just yet. Is it possible for you both to stay in Washington until we're happy that it's safe for you to return home?"

"We… we planned to stay at my club tonight anyway. The Capitol Hill Club."

"I'll arrange for a discreet guard." 

"Thank you, Jenny."

"Senator… one thing; if your son should contact you, are you going to be able to carry on as normal?" Kent hated to ask.

"I… I won't know what to say," the poor man sounded heartbroken. "What if he's been in touch with Oscar? What can I tell him?" By the time they'd discussed ways of making the Senator unavailable without arousing suspicion, he felt shell-shocked. It was fortunate that he and Robert left for the club a few minutes later, and weren't around to hear Tony's phone call.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

"I've got some Tylenol if you need them," Tim offered as they pulled up around the corner from Mel Heysham's address.

Tony guiltily pulled his hand away from his aching chest. "I'm fine, McMedic… maybe later, huh?" Truth was, that it was hurting more as the day went on. Just as yesterday, if he'd left the sling on, the damaged muscle bearing the weight of his arm would have been hurting less; and of course, yesterday he'd also manhandled two guys in a hurry to cuff them so he could help Ziva. He hadn't much cared what he did to himself then, and now he was paying just a bit. But by the time they reached Heysham's second storey apartment, he was grimacing.

They drew their guns and knocked at the door, announcing themselves, but no sound came from within. They heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and a moment later, their quarry appeared with a paper sack full of provisions. He saw them, dropped it, and fled back down the stairs. DiNozzo swore, and McGee went from nought to sixty in two seconds, leaping over rolling bean cans. Tony followed him feeling like a donkey.

Tim caught his man in the long hallway before he reached the front door, bringing him down with a long, lunging tackle, wrapping his arms round Heysham's legs. He grabbed one arm, to bring it behind him for the cuffs, and then saw, to his horror, that something flashed in the hand he hadn't subdued. He didn't have time to wonder if he should drop the arm he'd got, and concentrate on the one with the knife, before his opponent yelled obscenely in pain and outrage. The knife skittered away on the earthenware tiles, and Tony handed his partner the other wrist, that he'd just rudely bent back, for the cuffs. "Nice one, McGreyhound."

Tim shook his head. "I should have waited a couple more steps," he said. "Got closer, so I could grab both arms."

"By which time he could have been out in the street… sticking that thing in an innocent bystander." He was patting the prisoner down as he spoke. "Oh, look…" he extracted a cheap looking revolver. "Or shooting them. Don't second guess yourself. You'd have got the other arm. You did good, Probie."

They hauled Heysham to his feet; a spasm of pain flicked across Tony's face. Tim looked him in the eye and said nothing.

"So, Melvin… want to tell us why you ran?"

Heysham muttered something unprintable about a broken wrist, and Tony tutted. "Let's get him in the car, McGee, before he disturbs the neighbourhood." They marched him round to the agency vehicle, and stuffed him in the back. DiNozzo got in alongside him. "OK, forget why you ran. Try telling me who you called. Ghostbusters?"

"You're crazy, man! You broke my damn wrist! Called who?"

"That's what I'm asking you, friend. At the clinic… on Tuesday. After you'd frightened Chaz away. Who did you call?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Oh… but you do. See my friend there – who you just tried to stab, by the way – he's got a recording from the cameras at the clinic. And he'll be able to tell from the pattern your hand makes when you're dialling, what number it was."

"You're lying!"

Tony was, but he didn't let a little thing like that stop him. "You think so? McGee can make a computer stand to attention, sing three rousing choruses of La Marseillaise, and accompany itself on the trombone. Little thing like a phone number on a film… oh, please."

"You haven't got my phone!" Heysham was bewildered into losing any logic he might have ever had.

"Like that'd matter… but as it happens, I have."

The prisoner blinked stupidly at the sight of his battered Nokia in his tormentor's hand. He'd never noticed his pocket being expertly picked, which, as Tim remarked later, was the whole point. Tony went through the speed-dial, and the phone book. "Wow, McGee… there are some very interesting names here… DEA's going to have a _lovely_ time with this… little co-operation wouldn't come amiss here while you've got the chance, Melvin. Who did you call?"

He was met by mutinous silence, and laughed. "You got that memory stick safe, McGee?"

Tim simply waved it at him, very suggestively for a well brought up probie. "Three choruses of La Marseillaise coming up. Or I could do you the Russian one if you like, that's a good tune even if it goes on a bit…" Heysham looked from one agent to the other, waiting for the extra heads and antennae to grow.

"OK," Tony said dismissively, "so it takes us a bit longer, but fine. You've had your chance. Tim, you'll _never_ guess who I found among the Ws…"

Tim's heart lurched, and the slight swerve the car made wasn't entirely faked. "No kidding? This guy's in touch with –"

"Williamson! I called Williamson, OK? Now take me wherever the hell we're going and let me out of this car! I'm shut in with a couple of crazies!"

"Williamson…" Tim went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Wouldn't have thought you were high enough up the ladder to know him… the Boss'll be pleased."

"Oh, yeah," Tony said contentedly. "The mysterious, shadowy Williamson… who appeared from nowhere. You know what I think, Mel? Someone in the happy world of drug dealing does that, he has to have backing. Someone even bigger behind him… man can't just pop up like a gopher… he needs…"

He tailed off into silence, and Tim, glancing behind, saw the SFA had gone even whiter than when Senator Warner had walked into the bullpen. "Williamson," he said softly. "Oh, shit, Williamson… _William's Son…_ I gotta call Gibbs. The bastard's rubbing his father's face in it."

**AN: Commiserations, USA, I've a feeling we'll be following you tomorrow…**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Please, first of all, note the changed rating. **

**Now, don't get me wrong, we didn't go into it expecting we could win the tournament. All we wanted was a team that would make us proud.**

**For the past month, in primary schools all over England, children have been making scrapbooks about South Africa, or players. They've been choosing teams to support, painting flags, sticking pins in maps, and learning about the country they've chosen. They've listened to National Anthems, made vuvuzelas, and written their own England songs. And that lackadaisical collection of headless chickens and their hopeless Desperate Dan of a manager LET THEM DOWN.**

**Me, angry?**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 11

Blossom yawned and scratched herself. There was far too much of this noise thing that humans seemed to do so much of when they were together in a pack, and not nearly enough of the running around thing that packs should do. Kent understood, and reached his hand down to fuss her. "Soon, Bloss, soon."

Everyone looked at the patient little dog for a moment, then they all sat round the table again. Jenny said "Keep me up to date," and left, for which Tony was grateful. He knew that when the Director took a personal interest in a case, it was just that; a former agent still wanting to act like one. Gibbs, however, tended to see it as a slur on his competence, and go on the defensive. Now the Senator had left, there was no need for Jenny to be there, and Tony was relieved to see that she knew it.

"Stork confirmed," Kent said heavily, "that Ben Warner was the guy who bought the three speedballs. We're assuming at the moment that his friend was the target, but we need to find out. Nothing in the background of the two marines suggests any sort of link so far. Alex pulled Dennis Brackett in, the guy Stork bought his car from; he didn't have anything to arrest him for, but that's how Alex works. He roughed him up a bit publicly… If he lets people cover their backs, they'll usually talk to him. Especially if there's something in it for them."

Gibbs raised a questioning eyebrow, but Kent shook his head. Tony's quid pro quo remark went through his mind. He didn't like turning a blind eye to anything at all; he guessed that was the parent in him, but if the overlooking of something minor brought in major information, he had to grit his teeth and bear it. "You don't want to know, Gibbs. Anyway, the guy answered his questions, off the record."

"_So, you sold the car to Stork. Where'd you get it?"_

"_Williamson gave it to me."_

"_Gave?"_

"_Oh, yeah. He had me driving all over the east coast delivering, collecting… stuff… that compartment never got found. Great life… on the road in a good car…" His face twisted wryly._

"_So what happened?" _

"_He discovered I was a good chemist. Took me off the road, into the lab, had me making, and cutting, and set me up with a group to supply. He's a bad'n, Agent Hahn, I didn't argue with him. I asked what about the car. He said keep it, sell it, I don't give a shit."_

Kent grimaced. "We hadn't heard Tony's quantum leap at the time, so I hadn't asked him to show a picture of Ben Warner. But the Williamson he described is about right. He's one of the select few that Williamson deals with directly. That comment of Stork's about the guy sneering at the car… that'd bothered me, so I'm glad to have it resolved."

"It suits what we are learning of Ben Warner's nature," Ziva said sadly, thinking of the Senator. "His opinion of Stork is low, so he sneers when he sees him so proud of a car he did not care enough to bother with."

"The two goons you and Ziva brought in," Gibbs said, looking across at Tony, "can't confirm anything specific, but they both agree that Sablea wanted to set the Senator up for a fall by corrupting his son. They say he pretended to like William to get close, but wanted to bring down the man who'd put up such a stand against drugs and corruption in high places."

"Both of which," Tony agreed, "Sablea is armpit deep in. A man with no moral fibre, targeting someone because he has what he lacks." The SFA's eyes went dark, and Gibbs knew he was thinking about his father.

"So," the senior agent went on firmly, "We know that Sablea wants Tressel to make an example of him. We know that Williamson's after him too, although Melvin didn't know why, just that there's an underworld BOLO out on him –"

Again, it was Tony, the super-connector of random dots, who said slowly, "…Unless he was the other person in the bed. The unknown DNA male. The non-user."

Gibbs frowned, but it was more curious than contradicting. "Explain."

"Ice-hockey player… serious sportsman, less likely to do hard drugs. High up chain dealer, ditto. Sends his I want Chaz message out through HIV clinics. Why? Melvin confirmed that was where he'd been told to ask. What if… we know unprotected sex took place. What if, Williamson's found out Chaz is HIV, is worried that he's been given it, and he wants revenge?"

They all sat in shocked silence for a moment. It was far-fetched… it was entirely likely. Ziva said, "I will go back and ask Melvin if Williamson knows that Chaz is infected."

"I'll go and see if Ben Warner's DNA is on record anywhere," Tim said.

"It wouldn't be any use his taking a test yet," Tony said thoughtfully. "It can be six months before the antibodies show in the blood. Knowing he's got to wait that long is going to make him pretty mad."

"We need to warn the clinics that other people are looking out for the guy we put the BOLO on," Kent said, "And we need to contact all the illegal medicine suppliers we can. I'll get my team to help. If you're right, Tony, and it _feels_ right, time's running out for Chaz."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

For a man like Oscar Sablea, keeping track of his many interests was essential. In the case of Ben Warner, it was simple. Assign him a second in command who knew what he was doing, to show him the ropes, and report on his progress. Rufe Clark was competent, level headed, and loyal… to Sablea, that was. When Ben had remarked, rather sourly one day about word getting back quickly, the other man had simply laughed. "Don't you _want_ the boss to know how well you're doing?"

After receiving the latest report from Clark, Oscar put the phone down quietly and sat thinking. He was used to having to adapt quickly; if a situation turned bad, there was usually a way of rectifying things, or turning them to your own advantage, but he was thinking he'd end up having to do it one too many times with the boy. Someone who acted on the spur of the moment, and only saw the short term and the personally pleasing, would turn out a liability if he wasn't already.

It hadn't taken him long to work out that the deaths of three young men, one of them Ben's friend, shortly after the boy had visited Stork, was never likely to be a coincidence… His own ill-considered attempt to buy off the local DEA chief still rankled with him; he had been acting on the spur of the moment himself, always a Bad Idea, to clear up the boy's mess. Trying to persuade him to leave Chaz to him had been the thin disguise for his real purpose: offer him Stork and hope he wouldn't dig any deeper.

Clearly the dossier on Fuller had not been anything like informative enough. Once he met him, and the intriguing colleague from an agency whose existence he'd scarcely considered, and on whom he had no dossier at all, for all his smooth insinuations, he'd realised his miscalculation, and he was still smarting about it. One of them was so ill he could hardly stand up, and yet they defied him… and the guns of his men… and for a complete loser they didn't even know. Two things now seemed obvious.

Firstly, although there was nothing on paper, the boy could lead back to him, and knew too much about his organisation for that to be safe. Secondly, those two agents, now he had unfortunately drawn their attention to him, were not going to let it be deflected again. They were clearly brave, and implacable, and they just as clearly didn't like him. It was probably too late, they would have told colleagues of what transpired, but nevertheless, he'd be happier when he knew they were permanently out of the picture.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Ben Warner sat in his car; parked in the darkest corner, under the low ceiling of a crowded, anonymous multi-storey parking lot. He looked round, for the twentieth time; he was pretty certain he'd finally given that leech Clark the slip. It used to be simple; but since John and those two other guys had died, he'd been unable to breathe for the presence of his shadow. Clearly, Nice Uncle Oscar's sneak had told him about it, and conclusions had been drawn. He supposed that the reason for Oscar ordering Clark to stay close was to keep him out of more mischief, but he'd handle things himself, thank you.

Having a mentor turned out to be not all he'd thought it would be, and he wondered if the reason he'd been chosen wasn't his own 'potential' after all, but a recognised and shared desire to get back at his father. Father… pillar of moral rectitude, held in high regard, loved by all; while he… he had to take his few friends, and his comforts, where he could in the shadowy world of loveless meetings and shallow relationships that such as his father couldn't even comprehend. And where'd that got him? A one night, _unprotected_ stand with a nobody who was _positive?_ And didn't tell him?

He threw his cigarette butt out of the window, and lit another one, slowly teasing his brain with a theory that had seemed ridiculous, until it began to take root. The guy had had some of the best coke he'd ever been near… judging by the high he went on, and the crazy sex that had followed. He hadn't taken seriously the jerk's ravings about plenty more where that came from… not at the time.

But he'd heard… oh, yeah, he was quite capable of listening to Nice Uncle Oscar's conversations, if Nice Uncle Oscar was going to spy on _him_… $2,000.000 worth of spark, and one low-life had got it… it was Chaz. His one night freaking stand… it had to be. And his end of the operation was a lot closer to the street than Oscars… he could find him first.

Dennis Brackett wasn't above playing the ends off against the middle, and his run in with Alex Hahn told him something was going on. Rumours, some crazy, some credible, had been flying around for days, and when Williamson had asked him to locate one coke junkie, it was easy for a guy with his ear to the ground. He slid into the passenger seat of the car in the dark corner.

"Yeah, Chaz Tressel," he said smugly. "I found him."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

It had been a fine church once; not far from the waterside, with a wealthy congregation, judging by what was left of its former finery. But as the area had become more industrial, the wealthy congregation had wrinkled their noses, and moved further out. The minister had been sent to new pastures, the building had been deconsecrated, and the salvagers had moved in. Then came the dispute over ownership of the land, and everything had come to a halt. For six weeks now, nothing had stirred on the site, except for one feral tomcat, who found church mice plentiful, and to his liking.

"Here… kitty kitty…" the words were slurred, and the cat regarded the speaker with disdain, sticking his ginger tail in the air and swaggering away. Chaz Tressel shrugged. "Didn't want to talk to you anyway," he spat. He looked around the place, his lip curling. Oak pews… wood that must have cost a fortune, seasoned, stained and polished lovingly, now stacked six high, haphazardly, scratched and gouged. He tilted his head back, to say hello to the plaster angels along the cornice, who'd watched over him while he slept last night. Judging by the state of them, the salvagers had been taking pot shots at them with bits of brick. Broken like him… maybe that's why they'd guarded him…

On the ground near him, rich colours exposed where he'd reached out a curious hand and wiped the dust away, were the pipes from the half dismantled organ. Crimson, gold and deep forest green that must have been contemplated with admiration by many a worshipper… What was left of the instrument, (only a few of the high treble pipes were still in place, not that Chaz recognised them,) gaped, minus its manuals, on the opposite wall. He'd pressed the starter idly while exploring his hiding place, when he'd squeezed through the broken vestry door yesterday. To his astonishment, the power was still on, and without mechanism to hold it back, air began to rush through all the pipes at once, with an eerie, breathy, high pitched whistling sound. Startled, and a little freaked, he'd hit the button again, to stop the blower.

Now he looked across again and giggled. The organ still held a secret… his secret… He took another pull at his can of beer… it was his fourth, and he'd need all of it and the next two, if he was going to sleep in this place again, but he had to hide somewhere.

Dammit, he'd recognised the guy as one of Williamson's as soon as he'd come into the clinic, and the way the guy was looking at him… he had to leave his prescription behind… when he ran. It was either wait until whatever it was had died down, and go back first thing one morning to collect, or go and get some from Happy Jack or some other quack. There wasn't enough money left for that, and he needed to keep enough back for a greyhound ticket, so that when the coast was clear, he could leave town and go somewhere where he could sell the stash, and live happily ever after, whatever that was.

All he'd done was take some stuff that nobody wanted… he wasn't a crook, was he? He hadn't killed anybody, had he? Why was everybody… well, Williamson… after him? What harm had he ever done? He looked up at the angels. "What harm have I ever done?" he yelled mournfully at them. They didn't answer, and the echoes of his voice died away.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Ziva arrived back to report what Mel Heysham had said. Williamson wasn't saying why he wanted Chaz, but it was rumoured that he was gay, and since he was ordering his people to watch clinics, they were all putting two and two together. "He says it does not matter how low down the chain you are, you can still do sums," she concluded.

Kent took his patient little dog for a walk; Ziva, feeling cooped up, went with them. Tony ordered Pizza, with extras for Blossom, and ended up paying again. Tim rubbed his eyes and got a hard look from Gibbs; Tony took to furtively rubbing his chest and shoulder again, and thought Gibbs hadn't noticed. Kent and Ziva brought coffee back, and as they distributed it, the DEA chief's phone buzzed. He listened for a moment and sighed. "A lot of legwork, but none of the medicine quacks have seen Tressel," he reported, and the bullpen fell silent. There was the occasional sad remark, when thoughts turned to William Warner; everyone felt they were finally getting close to the end of the Starling saga, and were relieved, until they thought of what lay ahead for one good man, no matter what they did.

Tony shook his head in frustration. "There really is no way we can make things better this time, Boss…"

"Nope," Gibbs said ruefully. "We didn't make this, Tony… not down to us to mend it… even if anyone could."

**AN: Crazy to leave the power on in an abandoned building… bear with me here…**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Only one, very little f word.**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 12

"I found him again, Mr. Sablea," the voice on the phone was pleased but matter of fact. "I knew he'd gone into the parking garage; just a matter of watching. I've changed cars with Don, he won't know he's being followed. I'm keeping back." 

"Excellent, Rufe," Sablea purred. "You were right." Praise! Rufe Clark smothered a smirk as if the man could see him, "Causing a traffic incident just to follow him in would have been counter-productive. You're certain he's found Tressel?"

"He doesn't know how to keep a secret. He thinks I didn't hear him ordering Brackett to find him; and Brackett didn't have a clue that Don saw him going into the car park on foot. He's found Tressel, you can bet on it."

"I'm on my way to my car. Tell me as soon as you know his destination."

Excellent; the boy would take care of the minor nuisance that was Tressel, and he would take care of the boy. It was distasteful that he was going to have to deal with the problem himself; this had been an ill-judged affair from the start. Not the first; who hadn't made a mistake or two on their way to the top? But it was a long time since Oscar Sablea had last made an error of judgement; and once this was corrected, it would be a long time before he did so again. He re-opened his cell phone.

"Viktor," he said to his driver, "I'm coming down now. Tell the others to be ready."

When he got to his Cadillac, he was pleased to see his bodyguard in the front with the driver. Waiting behind, engine running, was a dark sedan with four men sitting silently inside. Sablea nodded to them with a smile of satisfaction, and waved away his bodyguard's attempt to jump out and open the door for him.

As he sat back against the aromatic grey leather, he reached for the car phone and tapped the handset thoughtfully. Two birds with one stone was something to look forward to, but four… now, that would make him feel better about the whole ridiculous affair. He replaced the handset, since it was certainly not prudent to have anything at all in the car phone's memory, and took out his cell.

"Mr. Bracket… yes, it is. I believe you've just spoken to young Ben? No… no, you didn't do anything wrong. You will, however, if you tell him about this phone call… Now, where did you tell him Mr. Tressel is hiding? Good… I want you to tell the same thing to Agent Fuller at the DEA. Yes, that's right… Agent Fuller…"

NCINCISNCISNCIS

What had once been a neat car park beside the church, for well-heeled worshippers who didn't care to walk to divine service, was now cracked and invaded by weeds, although trespassing plants had only had a chance to establish themselves since the contractors vehicles had departed. Rubble which should have been removed had been left in heaps in the wake of the ownership dispute, and kneelers, hangings and hassocks which should have been lovingly preserved elsewhere lay strewn among the piles, soggy and mildewed, listlessly flapping in the slight breeze. Ben Warner wrinkled his nose as he found a spot to pull up his Merc. "Nice one, God," he muttered.

Brackett had told him to look for the damaged vestry door at the back; thieves looking for easy pickings had broken in, and given up when they realised that everything small enough to take without being caught was long gone.

Chaz, the former salvage contractor, had known exactly where to look. Now, he lay on a pile of choir vestments, boned and stoned out of his head, since that was the only thing he could think of to do to kill time, but the combination of alcohol, coke, no food and fear of what would happen to him if he didn't get those meds, had made a mess of him in short order. He heard a scuffling noise close by, and giggled "Here…kitty…"

The giggle died abruptly, as the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked cut though the fog of his mind. Cold metal poked his cheekbone, and a voice he vaguely recognised said just as coldly, "Hello, lover-boy."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

In the bull pen something of a lull had settled. People were snatching at left-over bits of pizza, not knowing when their next meal would ever happen; nobody believed the hiatus was more than temporary. Blossom sighed and yammered; although her unconventional meal –"Sue'd kill me if she knew the rubbish I'm feeding you, gal," Kent had muttered guiltily – had satisfied her hunger, she was picking up on the tension of her human friends, and she felt uneasy. She did the rounds, nudging and huffing, and felt as if she were doing some good, but as soon as she moved on to the next person, she felt the gloom return behind her.

She paid especial attention to Tony; she remembered time spent with this human, she had a special affection for him, although she could never figure out what sort of pack thing it was that he used to do in his den, with the female who she never saw any more. She licked his hand reassuringly, and he lifted her onto his knee for a moment, but she knew his mood was heavy.

Her ears went up and she huffed again, and Tony set her down so she could go and greet Abby, who came clomping in looking just as tense as the others. She went to Tim first. "I know, I could have phoned," she said, picking the welcoming Springer up automatically. Blossom liked this human too; there were fascinating smells in her den. "I just needed some company."

That got everyone's attention. "What's up, Abs?" Gibbs came over.

"Tim couldn't find Ben's DNA in any database," she said sadly, "But he did suggest I had a look at the Senator's… because that's on record of course… the unknown male is a close blood relative of William Warner. You were right, Tony. Ben Warner was the unknown male."

"The unknown male in what?" William Warner himself, the faithful Robert alongside him, stood at the entrance to the bull pen, and the MCRT and Kent all winced internally. Tony thought sharply that he wished the front desk had given them the heads up, but hey… would it have made any difference?

Gibbs said, "Senator, I think we should talk in the conference room," and led him away. They all knew what the Boss was going to tell him, but the bull pen wasn't exactly private, for the imparting of such dreadful information. Robert watched them go, and looked at Tony with his own expression of awful foreboding. Eek, the SFA thought, it looked like he was elected.

By the time he'd brought the appalled and distressed butler up to date on what they knew so far of William's son, Gibbs and the Senator had not returned.

"I've already taken the liberty," Robert Joyce said finally, "of contacting the Senator's other children, and asking them to come to DC at once; I think they will need each other."

"I'm glad he has a friend as wise as you to look out for him," Tony said sincerely.

"A friend, Special Agent DiNozzo? I'm simply a butler; a good one I admit, but –"

"Robert, I know friendship when I see it. He's going to need you. I think they all are." He paused. "Did you see this coming?"

"Sir, it's not my place –"

"Yes, it is, Robert. Tell me about Ben."

It hurt the upright and good man to say the things he did about his employer's younger son, but it was a relief to be able, at last, to say the things he could never have told William. The coldness in the boy's nature, the manipulative streak, the looks directed at his father behind his back, and the viciousness that made the butler keep the family dogs away from him, made him certain that Ben was psychopathic by nature.

"Miss Emily was aware of it; she would never encourage him to ride, and if he did, she would always accompany him; when she married, she persuaded Senator Warner to let her take the horses with her to her new home. I am persuaded that the reason he chose ice-hockey as his sport was because of its physical nature…"

They were interrupted by the buzzing of Kent Fuller's cell phone. "Yeah, Alex…" The DEA chief's face went hard. "He did? Where… how long ago? Yeah, I'll bear that in mind… get there when you can… it's ok, I _know_."

"Brackett… remember him? Gave Alex an address, says Tressler's there. Says Ben Warner knows too because he told him. He then 'thought better of it' –" he made air quotes – "and decided to tell us. Alex and the rest of my team are in Norfolk, they can't get there anything like as fast as we can." He pitched his voice loud enough to carry, as he saw Gibbs returning, with a pale, but straight-backed William Warner.

Tim said warningly, "Didn't you mention one time that Brackett likes to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds? Could be a trap." 

"What have hair and dogs to do with a trap?" Ziva asked curiously. Kent and Robert both looked bewildered.

"Don't ask," Tim and Tony said together.

"Almost certainly is a trap," Kent said baldly. "All the info we've ever had from Brackett has had to be qualified with a what's in it for him clause, but it's information nevertheless." The team were already putting on guns and badges as he was speaking.

Robert went across to the Senator. "Sir, we should return to the club, and let the agents do their job," he said quietly, but the Senator shook his head.

"I want to go with you," he said to Gibbs. The senior agent frowned, and William went on, "As Robert says, you have to do your job. I won't… can't tell you how to do it. But he's still my son. I have to be there."

Only Gibbs knew what words had passed between him and Warner, and how to answer him now. "You stay outside, and lock yourself in the car," he said brusquely. "Kent's right. It's probably a trap, and if it is, then it's Sablea we're talking about, not your son. We can't be having to protect you. The car is as near as I'll let you come. That do?"

The Marine directness had stopped William from falling apart, and it was still working.

"Yes," he said, heartbroken but calm. "That'll do, Gibbs."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

He'd tried yelling and screaming. He'd tried punching and slapping him around. He'd tried jabbing him with the muzzle of his Browning in every sensitive place he could think of. He'd tried hauling him to his feet and marching him round the stack of pews, and slamming him against the wall, but the guy's legs would give out on him as soon as Warner got tired of holding him up, and he'd fold like an empty wallet without ever getting coherent enough to string two words together.

It was growing darker, as the daylight outside faded, and he wondered how long he'd been at this, and how much longer it would take.

Somewhere in the drug-sick, addled mess of Chaz Tressel's brain, a tiny little gleam of rationality would occasionally surface and say, "You're dead if you tell him, man…" The rest of the time near-oblivion was the best defence. He was barely aware when he was thrown down on the heap of vestments where Ben Warner had found him, and scarcely aware of the muzzle of the gun under the corner of his jaw. But although the physical side of the other man's assault had barely touched him, now that he was still, the sibilant hissing of the voice by his ear did get through.

"You dumb shit… do you know what you've done to me? Do you even remember that night?"

"Oh… yeah…" Tressel giggled through split lips… "Oh, yeah… good lay…"

Warner hit him again across the jaw with his gun. "Good lay? What the fuck would you have known… you weren't there, you were flying round the ceiling somewhere… never thought to tell me about the HIV, did you, you useless piece of trash… only got told later… 'if you've been with Tressel, you're not going with me'… well shall I tell you something, _Chaz_? You won't be infecting anyone else…" He bunched the other mans shirt front up and lifted him by it, and stuck the gun in his face. Tressel was whimpering in protest, but couldn't even raise his hands in defence. "Rot in hell, Chaz…"

The lights snapped on. "I don't think so, Benjamin."

"_Oscar!_"

"Put the gun down. We don't want anyone hearing the sound of a shot, do we? Not yet." The old man came slowly forward on his two ebony canes, and Ben was aware out of the corner of his eye that there were others moving around the building. Rufe Clark. Uncle Oscar's sneak. How the hell had he found him? The slow, inexorable advance of the black canes dragged his attention back.

"So, has Mr. Tressel revealed where the rest of the stolen cocaine is hidden? No? I'm disappointed, Ben. I thought you'd at least have that information by now." He looked dispassionately at the battered man slumped on the marbled floor, where he'd rolled off the robes. "Hmm… it seems as if he's been sampling it pretty thoroughly, maybe there isn't any left. But I thought you could at least acquire the answer to a simple question."

He sighed, and shook his head, managing to sound like a kindly headmaster, dealing with a wayward student. "Yes," he mused, "I'm disappointed. I thought I showed you how great you could be if you applied yourself well. I didn't think you'd make so many mistakes… Letting one of your dealers visit you _at your own apartment_ was immeasurably foolish; letting someone see it happen was worse."

Ben's jaw dropped in shock.

"Dear boy, of course it got back to me. And when you sought out Stork, and the same day three young men died…one of whom was a friend of yours… I don't think that was a coincidence, do you? But do you know what disappoints me most? That you didn't come to me and tell the truth. By trying to cover your tracks, you brought us to the interest of some very determined people."

He was well aware of his hypocrisy; it was his own action that had drawn the attention of the two agents, but he'd no intention of telling his protégé that. "Now I have to deal with that, and the ripples that your foolishness has caused are spreading. I'm afraid that's not something I can forgive."

Ben Warner went white, suddenly realising what his erstwhile mentor's intention was. "But… but Oscar…"

"Not a word, Ben. Our guests should be here soon."

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

They left the cars round the corner, some distance away. Gibbs looked steadily at William, and the other man nodded, and buried his face in his hands. Robert locked the car from the inside. The five agents and the unshakable Blossom disappeared quietly into the dusk. Within sight of the church they paused. Tim pointed. "Warner's car," he whispered. "Cadillac," Tony indicated another one. "That'll be Sablea's, and there are three other vehicles… that's a lot of opposition if they were all full."

"I can find out," Ziva said confidently.

"I don't doubt it," Gibbs said. "But you're not to enter the building, or bring anyone down yet. Clear, Officer David?"

"But –"

"If one fails to report in, what's that going to tell them?"

"Clear, Gibbs." She scampered away, and the other four moved in closer, keeping to the shadows and drawing their guns. Ziva had been gone o more than two minutes when the lights went on in the church.

"Power?" Tim whispered. "Our information said there'd been no-one in the building for six weeks."

"Well, either someone forgot, or someone likes to come in regularly, for their own purposes," Tony whispered back, "And I really don't care to speculate…"

Ziva ran silently back. "Eight that I could see, including Warner and Sablea… one is guarding the back door which is the only way in. I do not think there are more, but we should watch our backs, no? I think, too, that we should hurry if we are to save the Senator's son for the courts… the body language told me that Sablea is not pleased with him."

They moved forward again, and Gibbs murmured, "We need something to draw out the sentry." Tony picked up a lump of concrete and prepared to lob it at the door, when Blossom suddenly quivered. Kent followed her nose, to where a ginger cat stood on top of a pile of rubble, hissing, his back like a croquet hoop.

"Katz!" At Fuller's whispered word, Blossom scampered forwards with a low growl. The cat let out a night-splitting yowl, and ran, knocking over a plank as he went. Blossom trotted back, grinning. The sentry came out, gun in hand, and Gibbs stepped from the darkness and chopped him down. He was cuffed and gagged in seconds. "Good girl. Guard," Kent said softly. He didn't want her inside the building with them until they were sure it was safe, and she sat down to guard, and watch out for ginger cats.

They filed silently through the broken door, and stood in the shadow, looking into the lighted room. It was not good to have only one point of entry, on which the enemy firepower could be concentrated, but there were ways of dealing. There was a staircase, up to a gallery. Ziva pointed up and signed two. Gibbs indicated that she and Tim should go. The other three chose points to take up, and got ready to move, and not a second too soon. Warner was kneeling on the floor near to an out cold Tressel, and Sablea stood flanked by two goons with weapons pointed at the Senator's son.

"Great," Tony thought viciously. "We're about to risk our necks for the likes of him."

"_It's what we do,"_ his conscience told him.

"NCIS, freeze!" As they ran to their chosen positions all hell broke loose.

**AN: Might be a bit ragged, it's 3.25am. I'll check again in the morning and correct anything I don't like. What? Oh, yeah… it IS morning.**


	13. Chapter 13

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 13

Tim was pretty certain afterwards that he fired the first shot, although if he'd been asked for an accurate representation of what happened afterwards, he'd have been hard put to give one. Ziva had darted silently past him as they headed for the stairs up to the gallery; so much for letting him be the gentleman… Both of Sablea's men were looking down over the balcony rail as Ziva reached the top of the stairs, and the nearest one was too slow in turning round. The Israeli drop-kicked him in the side of the head before he could lift his gun.

The other man turned his weapon towards her, and Tim shouted warningly, "Don't!" The gun began to swing towards him, and he shot the guy through the biceps of his gun arm, thankful that he had time to choose where to put his shot. "I said don't, you damn fool," he hissed as they checked the men for back-up weapons, and handcuffed them to an ornamental pillar. They retrieved the mens' fallen guns, and finally turned their attention to the war that was going on downstairs, easing themselves up to peer over the balcony rail.

The three agents on the ground had dealt with Sablea's intention of using Ben Warner as a hostage by going in shooting, and splitting in three different directions. They'd got to their cover points without taking any hits, and Tony was now behind the pulpit, Fuller and Gibbs at opposite ends of one of the stacks of pews. Rufe Clark had dragged his boss behind another pile, and Ben Warner had slithered away behind an old, forlorn upright piano. Chaz Tressel still lay on his face, out cold, in the middle of what had been the central aisle.

It seemed to be a stalemate, with Warner lying low, knowing both sides were after him, and only the occasional hopeful shot now, after the first flurry. Tim and Ziva saw Sablea looking up at them, his face dark with anger; clearly realising he'd lost the advantage of his men up in the high position. A moment later they had to take cover as a hail of bullets was directed at them. They ducked down, and Tim said softly, "Think we're not doing much good up here; they can keep us pinned down." Ziva would usually have been reluctant to give up the higher ground, but Tim was right. She nodded her agreement, and they headed for the stairs.

As they reached ground level, she switched the light off in the vestry; and instantly more bullets were fired at the suddenly darkened doorway. Rather than run across the gap, she went all the way round the walls of the dark room, passing the broken outside door, and observing the cuffed, unconscious man outside and Blossom still on guard. The ginger cat was back on its pile of rubble, staring provocatively, and the Spaniel was watching hopefully, but she didn't desert her post. Ziva brought her attention quickly back to the job in hand, and arrived at the other side of the doorway.

One of the opposition caught the movement, and took a shot, and the two agents returned fire. Kent took advantage to shift his position, to get closer to where Sablea was; one of his men saw it and came out of cover to take a shot, which was a mistake, as Gibbs took him down.

As the senior agent dropped back into cover, Sablea's driver took a hopeful shot; it didn't hit Gibbs, but it knocked a chunk of oak from a carved pew end, which flew through the air, and hit him on the point of his elbow. Even Gibbs wasn't immune to the sickening sensation that comes of a blow to the funny bone, and little as his body usually dared to disobey him, it made him feel queasy enough to sink back into his cover, spots before his eyes, his whole arm vibrating, out of action for the moment. He heard random shots as he rubbed his elbow furiously, and fought to re-establish control over his wayward pain receptors, but there were no yells of anguish, or sounds of bodies going down, only a strange ping from time to time as a bullet hit an organ pipe. It was getting time to do something.

Tony could hear those odd metallic sounds too, and apart from spending a micro second amused that the pings were of different pitches according to which pipe they hit, was thinking the same as Gibbs. From his limited cover behind the pulpit, he tried unsuccessfully to find out if the Boss was hurt; Kent, to his right, indicated 'stay put', and wriggled away round the pile of pews, and was back a moment later. "He's fine," he hissed.

"Tell _him_ to stay put," he hissed back, and began to inch his way, on his belly, across towards Sablea's position. Kent started to fire randomly as a distraction; one of the gunmen broke cover for an instant to reply, and that was all Ziva needed. With a whinny of pain, the man staggered back towards the half-dismantled organ, and as he went down, his shoulder slapped the button for the blower that Chaz had idly pressed a couple of days ago. The whoop as the bellows inflated was odd enough, but the noise that had freaked Tressel out made everyone freeze for a moment. The eerie sighing sounded like the prayers of tortured souls, and had just about everyone's hackles rising, even Ziva's.

Tony shook himself, and kept crawling, and a few seconds later, Sablea felt steel against his neck, as a voice he recognised said, "Don't move, _senhor._"

Sablea complied, although if Tony had been able to see the thin smile that twisted his face, he'd have been very wary. Beside him, Rufe Clark froze as well. "Call your men off," the SFA said calmly, and alarm bells definitely did ring at how unruffled Sablea was as he did so. Well, Tony thought, we knew it was a trap, just got to figure out what sort.

The drug baron, Clark, and Viktor the driver, his only other man left, stood up, lowering their weapons, as Tony kept his gun trained on him, and the agents came out of cover to begin taking the guns. Tony was worried that Gibbs was a bit pale, and still clutching his elbow, and although he saw Sablea's signal, he had no time to react to it; not that there was anything he could have done. To the accompaniment of the agonised wheezing of the pipes, there was a burst of semi-automatic fire, plaster angels crashed down from the roof, and two men in black combats emerged from the darkness behind the organ.

Ziva looked furious; she hadn't seen these two when she had scouted earlier. _Harah…_

Sablea saw the look and laughed. "I was never one for keeping all my eggs in one basket, my dear," he said silkily, but only got a blank look back. He was not familiar with the Israeli's tussles with the English language. "Now, you will all oblige me by dropping your weapons, gentlemen… and lady of course."

They complied slowly, as the drug boss looked across at the organ. "Shut that damn noise off," he snapped, and Tony, closest to him, could see that he was unsettled by it. He was tempted to ask him if he heard the cries of all the souls that his poison had poisoned.

It was too soon to try that tactic; there had been no time yet to check in with Gibbs. Five years of working with the Ultimate in Monosyllabic had taught him everything there was to know about instant, non-verbal communication, but he wanted to know the Boss was OK before they did anything…

Viktor began to head towards the organ, but hesitated; the sounds coming from it now were no longer sighs, but more like ululating groans, getting weaker and weaker, and Tony, who'd played for many a service in his student days, understood at once. A stray bullet had punctured the main bellows, and it was collapsing. With a final moo, the ravaged instrument fell silent, and the driver switched it off anyway.

A flicker of relief crossed Sablea's face. "Thank you, Viktor. Now, you and Rufe… find young Benjamin."

Again thinking about it later, and trying to set it down concisely in his report, Tim was staggered at how many words were needed to describe events that took less time to happen than to relate them.

The first indication of where Ben was, came when he spoke, from near the vestry door.

"_Dad?_"

Having seized his chance to sneak out when everyone else's attention was elsewhere, he'd begun to sidle, gun in hand, towards the vestry.

He'd almost reached the dark doorway and freedom, when his father emerged through it; or rather stopped in it, astonished at the scene before him. Either way, he was blocking his son's escape route. Gibbs smothered an almost overwhelming urge to start yelling at the man's irresponsibility. Right now wasn't the time.

"Ben…" William's eyes went from his son, to Sablea, and back to the gun in the young man's hand.

"Dad, I gotta go. Get out of here… get out of my way."

Oscar's men raised their guns, but he stopped them with an impatient wave of his hand. He was entranced; he wanted to see how this scene would play out; he couldn't have planned it better. Kent was watching his face at that instant, and almost felt his scalp trying to crawl off his head and hide somewhere; Sablea was almost licking his lips in anticipation.

It was Tony, who else, who read the situation correctly, as William Warner stood, unmoving in his bewilderment. _Senator, wake up…of all the dim things to be doing…. can't you see…_

"Dad, get the fuck out of my way!"

As Ben's gun came up, it was Tony, who else, who jumped in between the young man and his father, and took the bullet.

It was Gibbs who took advantage of the drug baron's distraction, inching to within arm's length of the nearest guy with an Uzzi, swinging his arm in a wide arc and smashing him across the windpipe. Before he'd even completed the manoeuvre, Ziva had taken two quick steps and drop-kicked the other.

Kent simply punched Viktor hard on the corner of the jaw before he got the chance to bring his gun to bear, and Gibbs watched in astonished delight as the Probie dived for the pile of dropped guns, snatched up the nearest one, rolled away from Rufe Clark's shot, and fired himself, two handed grip, from flat on his back. Up in the gallery, he'd endeavoured not to shoot to kill. Now, with Tony down, he really didn't care, which was just tough luck for Sablea's lieutenant.

The thought uppermost in all of their minds as they did their jobs, was sort it quickly, and help Tony, and as Kent turned to secure the prisoners he waved them away urgently. "Go. See to him."

The MCRT turned back towards the doorway, where Sablea, deprived of every one of the henchmen he'd brought with him, stood without his canes. He was cold with rage, and the nickel-plated Walther he was holding, which Gibbs recognised as Ben Warner's gun – the gun that had just shot Tony – was steady as a rock.

The SFA was lying on his side, trying to push himself up off the floor. There was no indication as to where he'd been hit, but Gibbs couldn't see any blood, and knew he was wearing a vest… but his face was ashen, and twisted with pain, although his eyes were alert. He looked at Gibbs, who said calmly, "Stay down, Tony, we'll handle this." His second in command nodded, trusting him unhesitatingly, and slumped back down again.

A few feet away Ben Warner sat on his backside, where the momentum of Tony's flying leap had carried him. The SFA, trusting his vest to keep him alive, had swung his fore-arm at the younger man's gun hand, making him drop the weapon, which was what DiNozzo intended, but it had landed at Sablea's feet, which was the most stupid of bad luck. Arthritic or not, the drug baron had snatched the gun up, as all his plans went to hell, and now he had two of the men responsible right there in his sights.

"It'll be the last shot you ever fire," Gibbs said softly, as the barrel wavered between his SFA and Ben Warner.

"Then I'd better make sure I enjoy it, hadn't I, Special Agent Gibbs," Sablea replied just as quietly.

Tony looked up at the Senator at that moment, and wasn't surprised at the expression he read on his face. When he'd jumped, he'd had some crazy idea in the back of his mind, that he'd never have spoken aloud, even to Gibbs…_I tried to be a good son… always wanted a good father…maybe this'll make up a little to a good father for his bad son… you're crazy, DiNozzo, it doesn't work like that…Aaahhh! Ffffff….._ William Warner was looking at the muzzle of that gun… the one his son had just tried to shoot him with… for no better reason than to get him out of the way… He was watching it vacillate between Ben and Tony, and the look on his face was saying _not my son… not my son….not my son…_

_You see, DiNozzo, it really __**doesn't**__ work like that._

The Senator's glance met his briefly, and the older man's eyes were full of guilt for a moment, but they soon travelled back to his son, whose eyes were on the gun, and who wouldn't raise them to meet his father's. Tony really couldn't deal with things just then, and thought that probably the best thing to do would be to pass out and let Gibbs deal with them instead, since he'd offered, so he did.

For a long time, nobody moved, then finally, Sablea spoke again. "Mmm… maybe this isn't such a good idea," he said reflectively. He began to lower the gun a little, and turn towards Gibbs, although that thin smile of his made the senior agent still very wary. Ben Warner jumped to his feet, and still Oscar smiled.

"You old bastard! I trusted you, you damned old –"

Since Uncle Oscar had been expecting exactly that from his protégé, it took less than a second to swing the gun back and shoot him in the head, and less than a second after that for him to be dead himself from Gibbs' bullet. He fell soundlessly, still wearing that smile, but for the last time.

Tony came round slowly, with the sound of weeping in his ears, and that worried him… He opened his eyes, and Gibbs realised too late what was the first thing his SFA was going to see. William Warner sat on the floor, cradling his dead son in his arms, sobbing, with Robert trying to find some way of giving comfort. The MCRT, who'd all read that 'not my son' look, and had their sympathetic feelings severely truncated as a result, simply moved round so his view was blocked.

He was still in a lot of pain; he realised that his vest had been removed, and his shirt opened, and he tried to reach up and touch the spot where the pain seemed to be worst. "Don't," Kent said firmly.

"Only you could have such luck, Tony," Ziva said, with that tinkling laugh of hers.

"'S that good or bad luck, Ziva?"

"I guess you'd call it good _and _bad luck," Tim said thoughtfully. "You were hit exactly on the wound where they cut in to remove the bullet. What's the chance of that? It didn't pop your stitches, which is good luck, but you're black and blue, and it _did_ break your collar bone, which –"

"Is bad luck. I get it. You all OK?"

Tim smiled. "We're all fine, Tony."

"Mmm… Is Gibbs OK?"

"I'm fine, DiNozzo. Just went to see where the paramedics were."

"Right… you gonna get that elbow checked?"

"My elbow's fine. _You_ are going to the hospital."

Tony muttered something that sounded fairly rude. Gibbs didn't hear what it was, but Tim smiled again. As they stepped back to let the EMTs do their job, Gibbs asked suspiciously, "What did he say, McGee?"

Tim looked him in the eyes. "He said, 'Don't do as I do, do as I say. Nyah, nyah, boo, boo'…"

**AN: One more chapter, to tie up loose ends; Blossom and the puddy-tat…**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Last chapter. I'm taking 3 weeks off to watch le Tour, but I'll be back… you don't get rid of me that easily.**

**Nat, thanks for the lovely review I couldn't reply to personally.**

Poisoned Poison

Chapter 14

Robet said very gently, "Sir… you should let them take him. There's really nothing you can do." William Warner didn't resist as the EMTs took his son out of his arms. The coroners men hung back, in deference to the father's grief, this good father of a bad son; keeping their gurney and its black body bag outside, and letting the paramedics take the young man as if he were still alive. The Senator scarcely noticed, but Robert once again dealing by doing his job, thanked them quietly. William would remember later, and it would not be the black bag he saw in his mind.

The butler helped him to climb to his feet, a devastated, bloodstained, trembling figure, needing direction, depending on the good and faithful servant (Robert, having never been one to regard being in the service of another person as demeaning, had always liked that New Testament phrase,) to tell him what to do next. "We should go back to the club, Sir, and meet your family."

William stood uncertainly, looking vaguely round him, as Robert enlisted the help of a Police Officer, who said no problem, he'd take them back, even if the Senator wasn't up to giving a statement by the time they got there. They glanced over at him, and he was looking vaguely across at the federal agent who had just saved his life, but they couldn't make out what he was thinking; or even if he was thinking at all. Gibbs looked back at him, and met his eyes, but the Senator closed his, shook his head, and stumbled towards the door. The police officer followed him.

Robert went over to Gibbs. "The Senator is aware that Agent DiNozzo saved his life," he said softly. "He's not an ungrateful man, and he _will_ thank him in time…"

"I understand," Gibbs said. "He just saw his son shot dead… nobody's expecting for him to be thinking straight." It was the look on Warner's face when DiNozzo was down that was still rankling with Gibbs, but he wasn't going to distress Robert by saying so. He offered the butler his hand, and Robert gripped it, not without some surprise. "You're a good man, Robert," he said. "If there's anything I can do, just let me know."

"Thank you, Special Agent Gibbs," Robert said sadly, and followed the Senator out. The team never saw him again.

Tony was propped up against the base of the pulpit. "I'll go later." Tony was doing stubborn. Tony actually had a point.

There were four dead, and eight injured bad guys to transport; the man on the balcony that Tim had winged was losing blood, as was the one whose shoulder had switched the organ on when Ziva shot him. Chaz Tressel, apart from malnourishment, dehydration, alcoholic and cocaine poisoning and the effects of a thorough beating, had also had a chunk of plaster angel land on his head, which he would have been hurt to know if he'd been at all aware of it. His condition was approaching critical, he wasn't the only one with a concussion, so Tony was right. Other people needed the ambulances more than he did.

The EMTs agreed, but gave dire warnings about neglecting the injury. "It may need wiring; there's no way to tell without an x-ray. At the very least, it'll need strapping; or taping." They gave him a couple of distalgesic tablets, and went off to tend other patients. DGs… Tony winced, and palmed them. Those things didn't make him loopy, they made him seriously barking. And taping… that meant adhesive… He glanced mournfully down at the gap in his open shirt and his generous amount of chest hair. Owww….

The Boss followed his glance, and understood. He reached over, and Tony had to stop himself from flinching. He didn't actually want Gibbs to see the new bruising over the old, but the senior agent moved his shirt aside, and just _looked_ for a long moment.

_Aahh, dammit, Dinozzo… and will you take that guilty look off your face… what do you think you've done that was wrong?_

"OK," he said finally. "OK. But you _will _go. I'll take you myself."

That sorted out the guilty look. Tony gave him a long, hard, derisive stare, that actually made a flicker of guilt cross the senior agent's own features. If you blinked, you missed it, but it was enough to encourage the SFA. "No, you won't," he said firmly. "You'll come with me, and get that elbow checked. But McGee – no, he needs the rest. Zi – no, er… Kent'll drive us."

"And what elbow might that be?"

"Oh, hi, Ducky…"

They heard a yip, and looked over to see that Blossom, who had come inside as soon as the LEOs had taken her prisoner away, was sitting, looking over at the organ. The tall wooden framework which had supported the mechanism, was one of the few parts left, and on one of the struts, just out of the Spaniel's reach, sat the ginger cat, still with that supercilious, taunting stare.

"Ah, pay no attention, Blossom," Kent said, as he came back from sorting out responsibilities with the LEOs and his belatedly arrived team. There were still a few things to be sorted but it had been a long day.

A guard would be left overnight; "We'll sit in our car _outside_ the back door," a big, no-nonsense Sergeant had grinned. "No way are we spending the night in here." Kent had simply grinned back.

"How ya feeling, DiNozzo? _Fine_, I suppose?"

Tony surprised him. "Done," he said wearily, as Ducky finished immobilising his arm. "Finished. Washed out. Like everyone else." He reckoned the truth would get the Boss to hospital faster than his usual resistance. "But if you're not too tired, can you take me and the Boss to Bethesda? Reckon we might be meeting that nice Doctor Brand again…" he peered across the room, hearing another yip, but his vision was hazy with exhaustion, and he couldn't see Blossom. "What's up with Pup?"

The cat, deciding that because the arch-enemy hadn't moved, it must be fearful, had inched closer along the beam, and was casually swinging a paw above Blossom's head. The Springer ignored him, and sat still, her nose and paws steady.

Tony and Kent both spoke at once. "That's her hunting bark," the SFA said.

"She's not barking at the cat," the DEA chief said. "Oh, Bloss, I'm ignoring you, and you're doing your job." He went over to the remains of the organ, and the cat hissed and backed off a few feet along the beam. Kent squatted and followed the direction the little dog was indicating. The main bellows, with the bullet hole clearly visible, sat on a wooden frame about three inches off the ground. Kent lay down and pushed an arm underneath; out came a canvas shopping bag, holding…

"Yeah!" Kent yelled triumphantly. "The Starling Stash!" He pushed it away as Blossom left her guard position, and scampered up to be petted. "You ignored that cat and did your job. You're a star, li'l Bloss!" He thought for a moment, then whispered, "Katz!" The spaniel turned to look at her tormentor, let out a deep woof, jumped up onto the organ bench, and charged as the cat realised his mistake. The smug look disappeared from the ginger tom's face, he let out a screech, and jumped, making a star-shape in mid air. He ran for the door with Blossom on his tail, and disappeared out into the night.

The little Springer sauntered back, looking just about as innocent as a canine face could look, to be fussed over by everyone. "She'd never hurt anyone or anything," Kent said. "Well, except drug dealers who threaten her friends… but she deserved a bit of fun. She's the most patient dog I've ever known…" Blossom yawned.

Alex Hahn and the rest of Kent's team, guns drawn since it paid to be careful, took the stash out to their vehicle, and drove back to their headquarters. "Might see you in your own office tomorrow, then, Boss?" was Alex's parting shot, accompanied by a rude snigger from young Cal. Kent ignored both.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Gibbs felt guilty that Kent had hung around to bring him back from the hospital. "Haven't you got a home to go to?"

Kent had just smiled. "Sue was an agent right up until she had Jaz. She knows what it's like… and she puts up with it like the star she is. She says…" he looked at the floor with an embarrassed but happy grin, "She says, as long as I come home that's fine. It's the day I don't that she'll start to worry. G'night, Gibbs."

He strode into the bull pen; thinking he'd collect his car keys, and now that DiNozzo wasn't here to see him, he'd get rid of this stupid sling, and drive himself home. He was just tearing it off when a light voice said, "Should you be doing that?" Ziva was sitting at her desk, looking at him in open amusement. Girl was getting brave. He humphed, caught out.

"Didn't I tell you to drive McGee home?" The Probie was nodding over his computer.

"You did. But there were two agency vehicles to bring back, so we both had to come here, and we decided to write our reports while we had the chance. I _will_ drive him home in a few minutes, when I am done here. I also let Abby know what had happened, and that you two were both only slightly hurt. The director spoke to me when I got back, and I have taken the liberty of requesting down time for us all. We have four days, with the option of more."

"We'll take more if I can get away with it," Gibbs growled "if only to make sure DiNozzo doesn't try to come back early – and drag McGee along as well." He glared at Tim, who was awake by now, but too sleepy to be intimidated.

"I have written your report, and Tony's;" Ziva continued, unruffled. "They won't be entirely accurate, but all you have to do is change what you need to change, not write the whole thing. How _is_ Tony? And how are you?"

Gibbs humphed again. "Nice work, both of you. I'm fine. Just bruised. They decided to put a screw in Tony's collarbone… more of a precaution than anything, because he doesn't behave." He didn't mention the lecture on responsibility to his team that he'd meekly endured from a petite red-haired surgeon. Or that he now knew that Doctor Brand's first name was Naomi.

The other Troublemint Twin began to smile, and Gibbs got in quickly. "And you're just as bad." He walked over to McGee's desk, and turned the lamp slightly. He took the young agent's chin in his hand, and turned his face one way then the other, then released it, with a more or less satisfied nod. "Go get some rest,McGee. How is it that he manages to teach you all his _bad_ habits?" Tim thought of a pretty receptionist's phone number in his pocket, and resolutely suppressed a huge smile.

"I'll go and see him in the morning," he said. And he'd ring Beth, too…

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

Tony's surgery was scheduled for 7.30 in the morning, the first on Doctor Brand's list for the day, and until then the pain-killers kept him more or less asleep. He woke briefly as they were wheeling him into recovery, then slept for fourteen hours solid, and woke to find more stitches. The young Afro-American doctor who came to see him when he woke up, told him that Doctor Brand was off duty, but had left him a message, which he smiled and repeated word for word. "And if you don't behave this time, she'll make sure you're on desk duty for a month, and have to take double the mandatory psych-evals," he concluded. She knows Director Shepard."

Tony grinned his usual irritating smirk as a matter of form, but when the doctor had gone, he leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, and waited hopefully for sleep to claim him again. The lump of lead resting against his heart made that unlikely. He knew he was being stupid, and he also knew that he tended to get like this when he was debilitated by illness or injury… but he couldn't stop it. He acknowledged too, that the Senator was bound to have reacted that way. A good father doesn't stop loving his son…

You're only feeling this way because of the father/son thing, he told himself. You knew when you did it that it _wasn't _going to 'redress the balance'… it wasn't going to change anything. It wasn't that he wanted you dead… he just wanted his son alive, and you were simply collateral damage. Just because you always wished you had a father who'd love you unconditionally… so, all right, all _right_! You wished you'd had a father who loved you at all… you're tying yourself in knots, DiNozzo, like you always do when the subject of fathers comes up, and it never gets you anywhere, and where the hell is Gibbs?

The voice of the pleasant nurse who'd helped him to stand up to go to the head, and brought him a cup of tea when the doctor had said he could only have water broke into his savage reverie, to his great relief.

"Tony? You have a visitor. Do you feel up to it?" He said yes hopefully; he knew that Tim, bless the Probie, had been in while he was sleeping, because Nurse Suzie had told him about it, so Gibbs? Abby? Ziva? Another, bigger lump of lead landed from ceiling height as Senator William Warner came cautiously into the room.

NCISNCISNCISNCIS

The rest of the team's attempts to enjoy the down time were frustrated at every turn by SecNav, the LEOs' need for more information, the effort it took to avoid the media, and although Gibbs sent a message to DiNozzo explaining his absence, which Nurse Suzie promised to pass on, the Boss was pretty certain, by the time he go to the hospital, that his SFA was not going to be happy with him. He was beginning to understand that the younger man had abandonment issues and hated hospitals; he was piecing together that it had something to do with his early life, and he _would _get to the bottom of it, he just wished he already had.

He'd stayed with his agent last night until they'd sedated him, he hoped that counted for something, and wondered why it seemed so important to him. The Troublemint Twins… they'd got under his skin.

Tony was propped up against a pile of pillows, and still in his arseless nightie, which puzzled Gibbs, since he knew Tim had brought some sweats over. There was a pile of maybe seven or eight cards on the nightstand, but only one was out of its envelope. He was either dozing or pretending, and considering the fourteen hours sleep Gibbs had been told about, he didn't look good.

"Hey…"

The smile was low wattage, but it was genuine, "Hey… Boss." The effort to keep the corners of his mouth up must have exhausted him, as the smile faded as fast as it had begun.

"Hope you got my message… I tried to get here earlier."

"Oh, don't worry. I had a visitor." Something about the quiet, flat tone set every alarm Gibbs possessed clanging furiously. If a child had used that voice, he'd have expected tears next; hearing it from his big, brash SFA made his stomach twist. He raised his eyebrows, silently urging Tony to go on.

Tony twisted the bedclothes with his left hand; his right was hung round his neck in a sling that looked like an instrument of torture.

"Boss…" sigh…

"Tony. Just start."

"I… don't want… I'm not some needy weakling, Boss…"

"Explain to me why I would think you were."

The SFA closed his eyes. "When I dived in front of that bullet… I was thinking about my father… I tried to be a good son… nothing I ever did was right… _he_ was a good father with a bad son… I was trying to… make it up to him – I mean, how foolish is that? I would have jumped anyway, but what a stupid thing to be thinking…"

"You saved his life."

Tony met his Boss's eyes. "He came to see me…"

_Damn… why didn't she tell him I was asleep. He looks embarrassed. I don't really want to talk to him… and I couldn't keep it off my face. Now __**I**__ feel embarrassed._

"_Special Agent DiNozzo…"  
_

"_Tony."_

"_Tony… how are you feeling?"_

"_I'm fine, Senator. No permanent damage."_

"_You saved my life… I came to thank you."_

"_Not necessary, Senator. I was, as they say, doing my job. I was wearing a vest. Even from close range they're effective. You don't owe me any thanks."_

_He wondered why his speech was so jerky. The drugs? Discomfiture?Yeah, that. He didn't want to be doing this. I know you're grieving, Senator, and I'm sorry about what happened…he didn't deserve you… but go away, please. You look rough. Go away and rest._

"_And I came to apologise."_

_Ah, no! I don't want to hear this! But you will, DiNozzo, because he needs to say it. And if he wants absolution? _

"_I'm sorry that you saw what I was thinking. You were lying there hurt, you'd just taken a bullet for me… and I wanted him to shoot you if he was going to shoot at all. Ben was my __**son**__… what else should I have thought?"_

"_It was natural that you'd think that." At least try to sound sincere, DiNozzo, if he believes you, he might go away._

"_Tony, I'm sorry that you saw… truly, I didn't want him to kill you… I'm sure Gibbs was thinking the same thing, but wanting him to shoot Ben not you."_

"_No, Senator, Gibbs wasn't thinking that."  
_

"_What? I mean… how do you know?"_

"I know him. He wasn't wishing for your son to get shot. He was figuring out how to save both of us."(And if you'd stayed in the car like you were told, it wouldn't have got that far.) "Don't worry about it, Senator… you've got enough to think about." He let his eyes fall slowly shut, and hoped he'd given enough absolution. A few moments later he heard Warner leave.

"I couldn't comfort him, Boss. I wish I could have… I was too selfish. My own father didn't want me… Warner wanted me dead rather than his son… understandable, sure… but it hurt…" Why was that so difficult to say? "It hurt, and I couldn't be nice to him, and then he presumed to think you'd have been the same, when I know you wouldn't… shit, I feel about six years old…"

"Nah… but maybe you've felt like this _since_ you were six years old." The green eyes went wide with astonishment, but Gibbs went on before Tony could. "You think I don't notice, or care? You know I do. So do plenty of other people." They'd brought this thing out of the cupboard now, but it was something to deal with a bit at a time, and not when DiNozzo was on a low. He pointed at the cards, thinking it was time to lighten up. "Shouldn't you open them all, see who loves you? You've only opened one…What the hell have I said now?"

Tony had clasped both hands to his forehead, wrapping his long fingers round the top of his head, rubbing his scalp as if fending off a headache, then he looked up again, with a wry smile that was more of a grimace. "Oh, that's from Paula."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"We were lovers, Boss. 'From Paula' isn't what I'd expect, even from an _ex_ lover." He threw himself hard back against the pillows. "That's it. Enough of the needys. I swear I will never whine to you like this again, Boss."

"No, you won't. It's not whining. But when you need to talk, you come to me, and you _talk._ I listen well…" He shocked both himself and Tony rigid, by taking hold of his SFA's hand, and squeezing it between both of his. He rubbed his palm over the back of Tony's hand in a gesture that was oddly comforting, before putting it down again hastily. "Tell me, are you as scared of that little red-headed doctor as I am?"

"More, Boss, why?"

"Well, McGee's planning a barbecue… tomorrow, I'm gonna bust you out of here…"

**AN: Sorry about the heaps of angst at the end… I don't think I write it too well, probably best to stick to action… but thanks, and more thanks, to all those who've stuck with me through this whole story arc. Your support and encouragement has been a constant amazement to me.**


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